


Dance with the Devil

by Driverpicksthemooseic (Ratkinzluver33)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Because I accidentally too many dream scenes, Because it's not like that's been done before, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Character Study, Desperate Determination to Remain In Character, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone happens to be themselves, Featuring Horcrux!Tom, Fix-It of Sorts, Flirting, Harry is a Little Shit, Horcrux Hunting, I need to stop tagging, IT'S THAT FIC, M/M, Maybe the real treasure was the dream scenes we made along the way, No Bashing, No Dark Harry, Parallels, Quest to Restore Voldemort's Sanity, SO, Sane Voldemort, Sarcasm, Second War with Voldemort, So much flirting, Surreal, Time Shenanigans, Tom is Voldemort and Voldemort is Tom, Tom is a little shit, Tom is as morally ambiguous as ever, Trope Subversion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-08-12 00:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7912882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratkinzluver33/pseuds/Driverpicksthemooseic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"I'm not here to hurt you, Harry. Quite the opposite, in fact. I wish to help you."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>(OR, Horcrux!Tom helps Harry restore Voldemort's sanity and unite his soul. A gratuitous Tomarry Horcrux Hunt!Fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreamless Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> hi. i publish wips for a living. i've just made it my goal to publish everything i want to work on, so i don't have any excuses not to actually work on them. yes, this is the kind of person i am.
> 
> abt the fic! the tags are as gratuitous as my love of the horcrux hunting trope. but they're all legit. no character bashing, no dark harry, no hadrian, no ridiculously evil tom, but no good tom, just regular old morally ambiguous 'i do what i want' tom. i'm trying with my heart and soul to keep this in character. drag me if i don't. i mean, nicely??? ish??? shit, uh. gently drag me.
> 
> it's sort of vaguely in the spirit of the books. i'm half brit, so it hasn't been brit picked, since i basically brit picked it myself. but i've been living in california for so long that "dude" is now officially the greatest word of all time, so drag me on that, too. if i add in an americanism, mischaracterise, miss the bar on grammar, or generally fuck up in any way, please do tell. 
> 
> with those ridiculous disclaimers out of the way, i v much hope you enjoy! much love xx <3

It was quiet in the dorms at this hour. Nobody had reason to be awake, except Harry, who had spent the past hour unable to fall asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he was haunted by the image of Tom Riddle, standing by the fireplace, twisting the ring on his finger, asking about Horcruxes.

Horcruxes. There was something fundamentally horrifying about the concept that set Harry's teeth on edge. That Voldemort had gone to such lengths to ensure his immortality, that seven pieces of his soul were just _lying around_  somewhere, unseen for so many years, it only added to the confusion and mystery. And, to think, he still had no explanation whatsoever regarding their strange connection.

He just wanted answers. And he didn't want to have to resort to Liquid Luck and wine to get them.

With a sigh, he turned over and began to pick absently at a stray thread on the sheets. It wasn't calming enough to quell his rising frustration, but it did help a little. Maybe he should try meditation. Hermione seemed to think it would work as well as Dreamless Sleep, but she _was_  the type to try bloody anything and be good at it. Chances were he'd be an awful meditator, and it didn't help that he'd completely forgotten how to do it, either.

Merlin, he'd already counted about two hundred sheep, and he'd used up the last of his precious supply of Dreamless Sleep yesterday. He was running out of options!

He groaned and brushed his fringe out of his eyes, fingers running over his aching scar. Half the time he couldn't tell if his headaches were from sleep deprivation or that exhausting, snake-faced git. He'd bet hundreds of Galleons Voldemort was doing it on purpose. It was likely he knew about the connection, after all. It wasn't exactly something you could just overlook. Honestly, if he just knew why it was there in the first place. He didn't think that was _supposed_  to be one of the side effects of Avada Kedavra. Then again, most people were too busy suffering from the _main_  side effect, namely a complete end to their existence, to be documenting any other results.

This was going nowhere. With a brief Lumos, he grabbed at the Calming Draught in his bedside table, and hoped that, coupled with the leftover Felix Felicis, it might allow him some calm, refreshing rest. Even if it was a bit of a pipe dream.

* * *

He opened his eyes and found himself in a room he didn't recognise. Certainly it wasn't the one he'd gone to sleep in. For one, everything about it frankly screamed "insanely wealthy", even if the furnishings seemed a little lacklustre and faded with age. In fact, the entire room had an aged quality about it, save for a small door in the corner, which reminded Harry terrifyingly of the entrance to his little cupboard under the stairs.

"Ah, I see you've made it at last." He'd recognise that voice anywhere, even if it did sound a little mellower somehow, a little resigned.

Harry whipped around. At first, he saw nothing but the moth-bitten curtains, floating in a breeze that came from windows bolted shut, until a figure slowly made its way out of the shadows. There, in all his glory, stood Tom Riddle, looking precisely like he did all those years ago in the Chamber of Secrets. In fact, the only difference Harry could discern was in the boy's eyes. His left was its usual unsettling scarlet, but his right matched Harry's perfectly, making him look like some kind of absurd Christmas decoration.

"Did you Apparate me here, Voldemort?" Harry spat. "Listen, if you think I'm going to let you manipulate me like Professor Slughorn, well... you've got another thing coming!"

It wasn't a particularly threatening retort, and Riddle simply raised an eyebrow. "I'm not here to hurt you, Harry. Quite the opposite, in fact. I wish to help you."

"Help me?" Harry asked. He really hadn't taken _that_  much Felix Felicis, had he? Professor Slughorn surely wouldn't have given him more than was absolutely necessary. Then again, he _had_  chugged down a whole bottle's worth. Maybe that'd been a little hasty.

So hasty his luck had drained over into negative numbers. Hell, infinities.

"Yes, help you. You've been wanting answers as of late, and I'm here to give them to you."

"What? How'd you know that?" Harry was almost positive long distance Legillimency wasn't actually a thing. Then again, Voldemort seemed the type to take impossibility and bend it to his will through sheer, wildly insane determination.

"I'm a part of you, Harry, as I always have been. Everything you know, I know."

Well, that didn't seem good. At all. Was this a version of Voldemort closer to the diary? A Horcrux ghost? "Then why aren't I dead?"

"Simply because I don't want you to be." Riddle pursed his lips. "Well, one seventh of me doesn't want you to be. I can't speak for the other six."

"That's helpful," Harry said, dry.

"I don't blame you for your confusion, Harry," said Riddle, with mock gentleness. "After all, I have it on good faith that my main incarnation hasn't quite figured it out yet himself."

Harry smirked, which was probably reckless and stupid, but he was a Gryffindor, so he hoped that he got a free pass. "Did you just admit to _not_  knowing something?"

"If one seventh of me knows it, does that count?" Riddle smirked right back. "Then again, it would be hard for me _not_  to know it, as I live it every day."

He sighed, longsuffering. "Could you possibly be any _more_  vague?"

"To put it simply, Harry, I am the Horcrux I never meant to make."

"But you're part of me, you said." Harry blinked. "I think I'd know if I had one of your Horcruxes."

Riddle's hauntingly familiar gaze softened slightly, and he smiled, small and tight. "Oh, Harry, you aren't _in possession of_  a Horcrux, you _are_  the Horcrux. And I am the manifestation of that Horcrux, Harry."

Harry's world flipped upside down and then back up again, leaving him reeling. He felt sick, and scared, and dizzy like he'd had too much to drink, and then it was quiet. So quiet. "You're lying!" he accused. "You can't trick me like you did everyone else, Voldemort. I'm not going to fall for it."

"It's the only explanation worth considering," Riddle said simply. "Avada Kedavra was not intended to _form connections,_ Harry. You've had enough experience with Unforgivables to understand its sole use. Nothing else accounts for all the parallels between us, or our shared traits."

Harry crumpled, landing gracelessly into the nearest chair. "Merlin, you're not lying, are you?"

"No, I'm not lying. I won't lie to you." Riddle sighed. "For what it's worth, the presence of another soul alongside my own for so many years seems to have restored my sanity."

"Oh, well that's very reassuring, thank you." Harry grinned, but it felt wrong in his mouth. "You have a piece of Voldemort inside you, Harry, but great news! He's actually relatively sane and well-adjusted! Be glad at least part of him's not still trying to kill you!"

Riddle scowled. "I don't _have_  to help you. In fact, I was perfectly content to sit back and watch as my other half took over Wizarding Britain. I could just as easily go back and leave you alone for another sixteen years."

"So what changed your mind?"

"Pardon me?"

"Why'd you even come out in the first place, if you were just going to piss off again?"

"To put it frankly, I was a little put off by my own madness. I was afr- concerned that I would slip, allow myself to become too reckless. The thrill of power, the sense of fulfilling one's own insatiable bloodlust..." Riddle trailed off at this, expression becoming just a little too dreamy, and Harry allowed himself a shudder. Then, Riddle cleared his throat, and the hunger in his eyes settled once more. "I do tend to get carried away, you see."

"So you want to help me, what, fix Voldemort's mind?" Harry narrowed his eyes. "How the hell do you plan to do that?"

"By restoring my soul," Riddle replied casually. "Well, most of it. We need only gather the remaining Horcruxes in one place and recite a simple incantation, which should essentially bind them to my counterpart once more. You, as my Horcrux, have the power to do this. I suppose I should count myself lucky, and tell you how very grateful I am, but I'm not certain we'll be able to pull it off, you see. Not when saddled with you."

"But the diary and the ring are already gone. And, wouldn't that bind us together too? No offence, but I don't particularly want to be _bound_  to your scaley arse any more than I already am. Actually, I take that back. I do mean offence. What's this about being _saddled_  with me?"

"Yes, well. The pieces of my soul that were in those objects will only return to me upon the event of my... passing." Riddle spat out the word like poison. "However, the others will readily fuse together. Our connection will remain, however. I leave rather the lasting impression."

He'd figured as much. Well, he'd survived sixteen years with it, and they hadn't been _too_  terrible. Magic was more than enough to make up for a childhood in a cupboard. "Will those five be enough?"

"Of course."

"Alright. I'll help you," Harry agreed. Better a sane Voldemort, one that could be reasoned with, than the maniac he was faced with now. "But won't you be mortal?"

"I have hope your existence will negate that. But in the event that all my Horcruxes are eradicated, even my presence in your soul, there are indeed other ways to achieve immortality, ways which do not require the sacrifice of one's own sanity." Riddle smiled slyly. "Or good looks."

He rolled his eyes. "Fair enough. How do we stay in contact? Uh, well, I can't exactly owl you, can I?"

"Unlike the Diary Horcrux, I am strong enough to appear to you at will. If you ask for me, I will be there."

"Great, alright." Harry yawned. "I'll be getting to bed then. Where are we exactly?"

"A figment of your imagination, so to speak. A shared dreamscape. Think about leaving and you will leave."

"Cheers, Tom." Harry saluted him, and the world faded to white.

He woke up in bed, bottle of Calming Draught still in hand.

Merlin, his life was completely mental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are more chapters written! I will get round to self-betaing them. Maybe I'll beg my Beta, who's not in the fandom, to come and work endlessly for me anyway, because I'm a cruel, merciless empty husk of a human being. Who will work my Beta like a dog if she agrees to it ;;a;;;. @shakyhades pls fix my shit help i accidentally another fic again i'LL PAY YOU by writing more hella gay shit for you i swear
> 
> also! added note! tom being a little shit will be explained. i know that's not precisely fitting of his character, considering he was supposed to act v pleasant and charming, but i have an explanation for it. that's in the next chapter. uh. shit that wasn't v well planned.


	2. Or the Bad News

He woke again when the sun had just began to rise and shower down into the tower's windows. Hermione would be pleased to see him awake before noon, but he knew she'd have questions, and that she was smart enough to figure out he wasn't suffering from his usual insomnia. He just had no idea how to break it to her.

Honestly, it wasn't every day part of Voldemort's soul decided to come over for a nice chat.

He sighed and made his way out of bed, careful not to wake the rest of the dorm, who'd likely only just got to bed after a night of nonstop partying. Thank Merlin for silencing charms.

The Common Room was quiet and mostly empty, with the exception of a few snoring stragglers from the night before. Hermione was there, as usual, looking engrossed in an old book. She was chewing on the end of her quill, tapping it away every so often, unknowingly letting ink blots splash against the bridge of her nose. Nothing new, then.

"Morning," Harry whispered, trying to be respectful of the hangovers the other students would almost definitely be nursing.

Hermione's rapt attention shifted from the book and onto Harry's face. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in his wrecked appearance.

"Merlin, Harry, you look awful!"

"Oh, thanks, 'Mione," he replied dryly.

"You know what I meant," Hermione said, sighing. "Bad dreams again?"

"Something like that." Harry chewed his lip. "Listen, there's something I've got to tell you and Ron. Uh, when he wakes up."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Is something wrong?"

"Not exactly. I've just figured out some things, is all. Thought I might run them by you, if that's all right?"

At this, Hermione's eyes narrowed even further. After all, since when had Harry Potter ever been the one to make the plans? "Of course, Harry," she said, deceptively light. She was suspicious, just as he knew she would be. It only took a second or two before she shook it off, though, and with a smile, she added, "You know, it might be a while before Ron wakes up."

Harry snorted, and soon tried to quiet himself when a stray student or two stirred in their sleep. "I know. I _can_  wait, you know. Completely capable of it."

"Oh, definitely." Hermione waved him over. "Why don't you help me do some research while we wait, then?"

Harry settled next to her on the (only slightly obnoxiously) cherry red sofa, all grumbling and complaining. "You're going to work me to death, 'Mione, and then where will you be?"

"It's hardly difficult, Harry. I'm sure you've had enough practice at reading by now."

Hiding his grin behind the book she'd handed to him, he set to work.

* * *

Sure enough, Ron made his way sleepily down to the Common Room, now pleasantly empty, a few hours later. When he caught sight of the mess of books and notes Harry and Hermione had made, he shot them his best confused stare.

"Merlin! I don't know how you two can get up so early, honestly." Ron attempted to stifle a yawn and failed miserably. "It's hard enough to get up now!"

"Harry's been very helpful," Hermione added. "You could be too, if you got up, Ronald."

"As if! I'm useless at that sort of thing, 'Mione."

"That's not true!" Harry and Hermione chorused, then gave each other approving glances.

"You're good at planning," Hermione offered. Ron raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Very good. As good as I am, even."

"As good as 'Mione, Ron. How can you ever be prepared for such greatness? Plus, you can read faster than I can, as well, which saves time, and requires less effort on my part," Harry promised, scooting over on the sofa, freeing a space for Ron to come and sit down. "I get to _not_  read, and you get to be faster than the Chosen One! The Boy Who Lived!" A dry snort. "Anyway, listen, there's something I've got to tell you two. It's important."

"Is it something we're going to want to hear, mate?" Ron asked. "'Cause it doesn't sound like it is."

"Well, uh, not really." Harry scratched at the back of his neck. "But it's not too terrible, either, so that's something, given my track record."

Hermione frowned. "Given your track record, Harry, slightly less terrible than usual is still really quite bad."

Well, that was true. He gave a hollow chuckle. "Yeah, okay, when you put it that way. It's not great. Pretty shite, actually. We might die."

Ron and Hermione offered him encouraging looks. "As always," Hermione said, dismissive. There was a pause as Harry fiddled with the edge of his robes. Where could he start?

"I had a dream last night," he began, hesitant. "About Voldemort, but different. Not the usual. It was like in Second Year, when I went down to the Chamber of Secrets with the diary, where he wasn't quite real, you know? Not fully _there._ "

Hermione nodded, but Harry could see the rising concern in her eyes.

"He said he was a Horcrux. And you know how the soul has to have a vessel? Yeah, well, apparently that's me. Harry Potter, Voldemort's Glorified Gringotts Vault. You know how to make a denial potion, 'Mione, or maybe a dream-eraser?"

Hermione laid a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Harry. How is that anything but terrible?"

"He said he wanted to help."

Ron scoffed, face contorting into a sneer to rival Malfoy's. "And you're about to believe that? It's insane, Harry, that's what it is. Like everything else surrounding You-Know-Who."

"He had my eyes," Harry said, and the two stopped dead. A look of understanding passed about them. "I think he's really part of me, you know?" He smiled, half-broken. "Hey, he might even be a little bit attached."

"You really think this is a good idea, Harry?" asked Hermione. _She_  clearly didn't.

"Merlin, no. Hell, it's probably the worst idea I've had, but what choice do I have, 'Mione? Really, there's an actual part of Voldemort's soul inside me. I can't exactly lie to him."

"No, you can't," someone said, and Harry whipped around to face the ghostly apparition of one Tom Riddle. _No,_  no, this _couldn't_  be possible.

He felt dizzy again. "I think we need to get you a bell." His voice cracked. Ron and Hermione went pale as a sheet.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Riddle said. "I believe Harry went over this earlier."

He was met by silence. "Come, now," Riddle continued. "You look like you've seen a ghost, both of you."

"Except I actually _like_  the ghosts here, mate," Ron finally managed, voice wobbling. Then, he turned to Harry, looking distinctly unwell. "You didn't think to warn us he could do that, really?"

"Sorry." Harry put on his best apologetic smile. "I sort of had other things on my mind. And no idea. Voldemort isn't really the type to give warning. Shouldn't we have figured that out by now?"

"One of the many things to escape your notice over the years, Harry," Riddle added. "Now, if we could please get down to business."

"Aren't you supposed to be nice to your hosts, Tom?" Harry quipped. Joking even though he felt he was about to be sick. Was this the bravery Gryffindor was famed for? Because it wasn't all that great. Or helpful.

"I'm under no obligation to be polite here. I promised no false pretences, remember?"

Harry replied with an exaggerated eyeroll Riddle couldn't have missed if he tried. He wondered if his head might soon roll along with them. "Politeness isn't a false pretence!"

Riddle huffed. "With me it is."

He threw up his hands, and gave up on tip-toeing. He'd never been the graceful type. "If politeness is too much to ask, how do I know you won't resort to, I don't know, _murder?_ "

"Murder wouldn't help this along in the slightest. And, yes, I _do_  intend to be helpful, Harry."

"Do you?" Hermione piped up. Harry pitied Riddle for being on the receiving end of _that_  particular scrutinising stare.

"Of course." Riddle smiled, like the perfect gentleman. It looked wrong on his face, and Harry wondered if he was out of practice, or if all of 1940's Hogwarts had been filled with the same people who clung so tightly to denial now.

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "Why agree to help us now?"

"I have my reasons."

"You said you wouldn't lie," Harry snapped. "If you can tell me, you can tell Ron and Hermione."

Riddle pursed his lips, looking faintly regretful. "Very well. I'm helping you because my counterpart is, to be quite frank, rather out of control. Of course, I'm no saint," at this, Harry snorted, and Riddle's left eye, untouched by Harry's colouring, twitched violently, "but I always keep myself in check." Harry snorted again. "For the most part. If I consider you deserving."

Ron grinned, his unhelpful Gryffindor courage swiftly returned. "So, what you're saying is, you're too mad for your own taste?"

"I will come to regret this, won't I?" Riddle said, more to himself. "Yes, that is what I'm saying, Weasley, thank you. I marvel at your unrivaled powers of comprehension."

"Smartarse little-! Did he learn that from you?"

"Undoubtedly," Harry chirped. "I'm a bit proud."

"Naturally," said Riddle. His voice was harsh, deadpan. "Lord Voldemort has a sense of humour. Perhaps he is not so very inhuman after all."

"One seventh of him isn't," Harry said.

Riddle sighed, pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Well, it's a start." He looked far too put upon for someone who had started the whole bloody thing.

"You're not what I expected," said Hermione, cautious.

"I was created unexpectedly. It's only fitting."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "How could your past self not have known? I mean, didn't you plan this from the start?"

"I did intend to make more Horcruxes, yes," Riddle allowed. "Though, I was unaware you could utilise a living vessel. I assume I took full advantage of this fact after finding out."

"If your snake is what I think she is, then, yeah. Full advantage." Harry shuddered. "She gives even _me_  the willies, and this is coming from a snake person."

"A snake? A good choice." Riddle smiled. "Loyal only to me. Yes, there's an idea from my counterpart I can wholeheartedly approve of."

Harry deftly chose to ignore the comment. "If a Horcrux is unintentional, does that change it somehow?"

"Only in that I was not put away for safekeeping like the others. I've had no outside influence to speak of, save for your own, Harry. Aside from my counterpart's memories at the time of your birth, my knowledge is as limited as your own. As such, it has only grown as yours has grown."

"So, that's why you're a snarky git," Ron said snidely. "You grew up with one."

Riddle side-eyed him. "In a manner of speaking."

"That's not something I ever thought I'd hear," Harry said.

"What happens if he finds out?" Hermione asked suddenly.

Ron blinked at the non-sequitur. "You mean You-Know-Who?"

"My name is hardly that difficult to pronounce," Riddle remarked wryly. Harry glared at him. It was a touchy subject he'd spent many a night arguing over with Ron, and he didn't particularly care to go over it again.

"What happens if Voldemort finds out Harry's his Horcrux?" Hermione quickly clarified, interrupting a scowling Ron. Merlin's bollocks, she was a lifesaver.

Riddle considered this. "Doubtlessly, I'd put him under my protection."

Ron laughed in disbelief. "What, just like that?"

"I could under no circumstances afford the risk. I would consider my hatred for Harry irrelevant if I knew he contained part of my soul."

The trio shared similar doubtful looks.

"My obsession with Harry would likely take other forms," Riddle continued. "From bloodlust to guardianship, if you will."

"Hell, that's odd to think about." Harry screwed up his face. He couldn't picture Voldemort, with or without his snakelike form, ever caring for anyone except himself. "Overprotective Voldemort? Am I drunk or just completely mad?"

"How do you think Dumbledore's hand was cursed? I have gone to great lengths to protect my own soul, Harry. As you have seen first-hand."

"Damn," said Harry succinctly.

Riddle ran a tired hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture too human to be comfortable. "Yes, quite. We'll have great fun reacquiring them, I'm sure."

"But it's not impossible?" Harry asked, voice softening and spiritless. The Triwizard Tournament was frankly less daunting.

"Harry, I split my soul seven times. I consider nothing impossible."

_And look at where that got you, for Merlin's sake!_  Harry thought, hoping Riddle wouldn't hear, and hoping he would.

"First thing's first," Hermione said. "You'll need to tell us everything you know about Voldemort's Horcruxes. Do you think you can do that?"

"Of course." Riddle crossed his arms, tight and defensive. "I expect you won't destroy them."

"You have our word," Hermione promised.

"We'll need to go after them slowly, one-by-one, and with as much care as possible. I doubt even I could reason with my other self if he were to find out." Riddle reached for his ring finger, only to find nothing. Discomfited, he slipped his hands back into his pockets. "Harry and I are guaranteed protection, but you two are... expendable. I'm aware this may sound insensitive, but I promised no false pretences."

Hermione nodded. "We're not going to abandon Harry now."

"Not ever," said Ron.

"Look, I wouldn't blame you if you did." Harry smiled wanly. "In fact, it's probably the smarter option, if I'm honest."

"How very Slytherin," Riddle said. "The Hat really wasn't wrong, was it?"

Harry flipped him off. Riddle only raised an eyebrow.

"Self-preservation isn't for us, I suppose," Hermione sighed.

"This is the most unpleasantly Gryffindor thing I've ever done."

Ron shrugged. "Blame You-Know-Who."

Harry felt himself smirk. "Yeah, Tom. You only have yourself to blame."

"As I mentioned, no pretences. So it's with the utmost honesty that I say, Potter, sometimes I really do wish I could kill you."

"What a shame."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEHOLD! I RETURN! With character gushing instead of bashing. I accidentally. Did that. Uh. Never fear! I totally explained away my legitimate need for sarcastic Voldemort with an in-canon reason. That I didn't do accidentally. That I did on purpose.
> 
> Ohgod. As with everything I write, seriousness comes and goes. But it's always there! Waiting... sOON. Surprise angst is basically J.K.'s jam, so.
> 
> And action, too! This is going a bit slow, I'm sorry. I ramble. Over basically everything.
> 
> Anyway, I'll shut up now. Please enjoy. <3
> 
> (Small extra note: Lord Voldysnort isn't exactly the Lord King of Trusting People, but this small fragment of him has been saddled with Harry's ridiculously genuine, goofy, heroic ass for sixteen years. I also have a mighty need for reluctant friendship between not-enemies-kind-of-sort-of.)


	3. Seeing Double

The cocky grin fell from his face as soon as he crossed the threshold of his dorm. It felt as if all the energy had been sapped out of him, slowly and painfully, and briefly, he wondered if he should ask Riddle if he could possibly be responsible. But Riddle would probably just smirk, or laugh at him mockingly, or tell him exactly what he didn't want to hear. Which was, of course, "Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing. How do you like watching yourself drain away, Harry? Are you happy? Draining away like I did? Fading, like the ink in that diary?"

He could hear Neville snoring lightly, Seamus and Dean whispering to each other about the fantastic pranks they could pull, the soft rustle of sheets as students slept peacefully. And he wanted so much to be like them, with their only worry the scores on their exams, or the amount of food they ate last night when nobody was looking.

The castle was always looking.

He went to bed jumpy and tense, and only slept when he'd drained a fresh bottle of Calming Draught. And another.

* * *

He opened his eyes and found himself again somewhere he hadn't seen, let alone fallen asleep in, in his entire life. There was a fireplace, flickering over the walls, elegantly designed. The bed was draped in silk, and its post engraved with intricate, wooden-scaled dragons. At the window, out at empty black, stood Voldemort, looking like the living dead. Tired, angry, empty.

"Haven't we already talked enough tonight, Tom? I mean, it's great to have the pleasure of your company, but what more is there to go over? Unlike some, we mere mortals actually have to sleep, you know."

Voldemort shot back, and looked, for a moment, horrified, before composing himself immediately. "Lord Voldemort does not recall having talked to you recently, Harry Potter." A pause. "Have you finally lost your mind, boy? Why would you try to find sanctuary here?"

"Tom? What're you-? You're the one finding 'sanctuary' _here!_  I only _just_  said-"

And then his throat closed against rising bile, and he stepped back against the fireplace, letting the flames lick almost too close to his robes. An inch farther, and he'd have more to worry about than just Voldemort. "Nevermind," he said quickly. "That's right, I've gone entirely mad. Nice to see you again. Thought I'd come over for tea, say hello. Mortal enemies should get to know each other once and a while."

"You're a poor liar, Potter. Tell me, why are you really here?"

"I don't know! Like I'd voluntarily seek _you_  out to spend the evening with, looking pensively out windows. I can do that in my own time."

"What did you mean? That you'd only just spoken to me?"

"I'm seeing things, as usual. Troubles of being the Boy Who Lived. It's all very tragic, but honestly, I should get going. Your private time is not something I need to witness, and frankly, as lovely as the house is, I've better things to do than stand around-"

"Potter. Do _not_  play games with me."

"Why, 'cause you have poor sportsmanship?"

A spindly hand reached for a concealed wand, and Harry backed away half an inch more. "I'm joking! Don't you have a sense of humour, Oh Great Dark Lord?"

"Do you find this particularly humorous?"

"Okay, very good point, can I leave now?"

Voldemort looked through him. "How could you communicate with me without my knowing?" Slowly, his eyes narrowed, barely-there lips turning down into a sharp scowl. "I know about the diary, Potter. Have you come across something similar? Do not think of concealing this from me, I assure you I _will_  find out-"

"I'm completely innocent in all this, thank you. I _told_  you, spending time in your intellectually-nourishing company is not at the top of my bucket list. Living life to the fullest doesn't mean, well. It doesn't mean this, is what I mean."

Voldemort hissed, like an actual snake, vicious, and suddenly there were fingers scratching at his mind, and he was screaming, and everything felt narrow and colourless, and then there was nothing except a sharp-toothed smile. "A wise lord does not underestimate his enemy. You cannot hope to keep me away entirely. I know you've found something, Potter."

"Maybe I just really like having fantasy conversations with past versions of you-" He coughed. "Using blood as ink, sacrificing my soul for your return, the usual. Reliving old memories. I haven't found a bloody thing."

"You put up an admirable effort, but you cannot win, here, in my own mind. Tell me, or I will retrieve the information personally. From anyone I choose."

"Fuck, alright, alright. I found another 'diary'. Stop looking like that. Don't bring other people into this."

"Very good, Potter."

"Honesty is the best policy," he spat, and to his surprise, Voldemort began to laugh.

"You have no chance of destroying another of my... possessions. The Basilisk is dead. He has no venom left to give."

"Well, that's good, 'cause I don't want to destroy it."

Voldemort blinked.

"Yeah, in fact, I'm planning on keeping it. Your past self is just _so_  charming and irresistible. Not like now."

"You still believe now is a good time to joke, do you? _Where_  have you taken it?"

"It's always with me, and there's no way you can get it back unless I decide to give it to you. So you can just- you can just deal with it like the good little snake you are. That's what all the rest of us useless, brainless plebeians do."

Pale fists began to shake, sharp nails drawing blood. "You-!"

"Relax," said Harry. "I'm going to help you. You'll see."

"Unless you wish to switch sides, you are of no help to me."

"Actually, I think you'll find I am." He'd run. From the castle. Keep him away. He could _bait_ him, this was the perfect opportunity. Anything to stop him. Anything to protect them. "Or at least, one seventh of me is."

The shock in Voldemort's eyes turned to blinding white, and there, Harry woke up. In the cupboard under the stairs.

* * *

"We're safer in your own mind," said Riddle. "I can sense my counterpart is... beyond surprised. What have you done? You should be thankful I managed to pull you away from a place so close to our link! My other self has no awareness of your importance yet, he has no reason to keep you alive-"

"Yeah, he does. The same reason you do, actually."

"You told him," said Riddle. His left eye narrowed to match a pair he'd been watching only minutes earlier. "You are a fool, Harry Potter. He will come after you. He will steal you away and hide you, so that no-one can ever touch you again."

"Catch me if you can," Harry said, and Riddle clenched his fists. Not drawing blood, not as angry as his future self, but so very close.

"I know his every move. We are one and the same. He will _not_  stop until he has found you. We intend to use everything in our power to keep you away from the wrong end of a killing curse."

"Well, all the more reason to bind you together, am I right? You'll come to your senses and stop _hunting me like some kind of dog_  once you realise."

"We must find the other Horcruxes," Riddle said. "Immediately."

* * *

"So, he's going to be looking for us," Harry said, and everything in Hermione's face tried so hard to keep up her smile.

It didn't work. "Harry, you let Voldemort _know_  about the Horcruxes?"

"I had to. He was going to figure it out either way, 'Mione. You know he would've."

"So you just told him preemptively! Harry! You know better than that."

Harry turned away, craning towards the window, spattered lightly with rain, hair falling into his eyes to obscure the view anyway. His stomach sunk. He'd known it was stupid in the beginning, the first moment he'd realised which Voldemort he'd been speaking to, and yet he always fell for it. Getting riled up, letting Voldemort unsettle him like he did everyone else. Only, Harry would never show it. Not on his life. "Not when he's around."

"So, what you're saying is," Ron began, and he was remarkably composed for someone learning of their impending doom, "we're completely and utterly dead. And it's your fault, mate."

He wouldn't let it happen. Here, curled in the burgundy parlours of Gryffindor Tower, it was so easy to forget what he could do, what he could do to _them,_ but Harry wouldn't have it. "I can try to get through to him," he offered.

"I doubt you'll be successful, Harry. Whatever's left of him in there, I don't think it's much." Hermione shook her head. "All the humanity in him is with _you,_ right here, Harry." She pointed to his heart. "That's all."

"We don't know that," he protested, desperate. But Hermione only shook her head a second time.

"He killed your parents. Mercilessly. To tie up loose ends. Do you really think that can be reasoned with?"

Harry shrugged. "No, yes, maybe- I don't know. I want to think he can. I want to think we have a chance."

"Why don't you just ask him yourself?" Ron asked, and Harry balked. "No, no, not _him_  him, _him!_ "

"That could probably not make any less if it tried, Ron. _What_  are you on about?"

"The young You-Know-Who. In your head." Ron cringed. "Merlin, that sounds like you've lost it."

Sometimes Harry felt he had. "I can try."

Silently, he withdrew into himself, as if searching for a memory on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach. He'd come to recognise the dark, quiet part of his mind, the landing floor just before the bridge to Voldemort's own, where Riddle lurked. He'd said he would come when called. But would he? He could easily imagine it, Riddle slipping away into the shadows, crossing the bridge himself, abandoning them after Harry had revealed about the only advantage he had over Voldemort. He wouldn't trust Riddle, not even after an eternity, but he did trust that it was in both his and Harry's self-interest to remain allies.

That was about his only hope, a tiny tether of a guarantee. Barely enough to stake his own life on, and yet that was exactly what he had just gone and done. Like an absolute moron.

Slowly, another presence unfolded, and Riddle's figure shimmered into view. "You needed me?"

"I didn't think this through," Harry admitted, wincing. "Ron, you ask. It was your idea."

"I'm not bloody suicidal!" Harry glared. "Yeah, then my death is on _your_  hands. And I'll rewrite my will to take you out of it." There was only quiet. "Alright, fine, I'd have to write it in the first place. It was a nice try, though, wasn't it?"

Riddle looked disdainful. "Did you invite me here to babysit your infant of a friend, Harry?"

Ron scowled. "What twisted his knickers? We asked you here to, well, ask you something. About the other you, y'know, the present one. Can we reason with him?"

"Has he gone entirely mad?" Riddle asked, stepping closer towards Harry. "I knew Gryffindors had a penchant for blindly rushing into things, but attempting to reason with my counterpart? That's not just reckless, that _is_  'bloody suicidal'. He'd listen to you only if you managed to convince him not to kill you right there on the spot, before you could so much as get out a word. And you're not very good at communicating things wordlessly, are you?" He looked around. "Any of you? No, that's what I thought."

"I think that's the biggest tantrum I've ever seen him throw," Ron said. "Worse even than the time I technically beat him at chess, or when you told him you pitied him. Now, that was a big one."

"I would very much like to _stay alive,_ Weasley," Riddle spat. "And infuriating me, in any form, is not conducive to that end. In all possible ways. I will kill Potter myself, and sacrifice my own soul, before any of you do something so rash."

"We're only trying to meet!" Harry snapped. "I'm not getting on one knee and proposing, for Merlin's sake."

Riddle stared at him, annoyance seeping out of every pore. "A marriage proposal from you would make about as much sense. Trying to arrange some sort of negotiation, on the assumption that he might purportedly deign to listen to your ridiculous, ludicrous ideas for more than a single second? That's the move of someone with absolutely _no_  mental faculties whatsoever-"

"You really like to pull out the twenty point words when you're mad, don't you?" Harry asked, stopping Riddle's rant dead. "You talk a lot more than your snake-faced version. He's given up at this point, I think, at even trying to explain why the rest of the world is so _incredibly_  dimwitted, and how everybody should just listen to his genius before they ruin the Wizarding World. But he still sounds like a walking dictionary."

Riddle quieted. Finally, he said, high and cold, "You have quite the mouth on you, don't you, _boy?_ "

Harry sighed. "It's good you're alike enough to predict your own movements. Because, honestly, I don't get you half the time. Trying to figure you out, even if I actually lived in your mind, would be pretty much impossible."

Eventually, in a move eerily reminiscent of his dream only hours ago, Riddle began to laugh. The same tinny, mocking laugh as his counterpart, a touch less condescending, and just a slight bit more amused. "Nobody's ever dared to talk back to me before," he said. "But you just can't seem to stop, can you? I remember, you were uncooperative even when I had you dangling above my father's grave. Strange, I'd have my Death Eaters executed if they said anything _near_  what you have. Why aren't you dead already?"

Harry frowned. "Funny, that. It's not for lack of trying."

Soon, Riddle began to unwind a fraction. He turned back to Ron and Hermione, and in his most charming voice, sickly sweet like it had been for Slughorn, he said, "Forgive me. I seem to have lost my temper."

Ron looked sick, and Hermione unimpressed. She crossed her arms tightly. "You don't like that any of us would speak out of turn, do you?"

"On the contrary," Riddle offered, "I've never been more entertained. Of course, if I could cast Crucio, you'd all be screaming on this very floor, but still, this is really quite the pleasure to watch. Not as simpering as my other acquaintances. That's very impressive, for someone so young."

"Alright, enough!" Harry raked a hand through his hair, down over his face. When everyone was quiet, he asked, "What if I met with him in a dream?"

"He couldn't kill your physical body, then," said Riddle, chilly. "But he could destroy your mind. And I think we're all aware the latter is more important."

"If I can reason with him," Harry begged. "He's probably halfway to Hogwarts by now, or planning to take us all hostage, and I can't. He can't do that. I won't let him kill everyone else for my mistakes."

"It still constitutes a risk we cannot afford to take."

"Well," said Harry, looking at the paling faces of his greatest friends, draped in red robes. He could see the red getting darker, mixing with inky, blotchy bloodstains, defacing students innocently showing off house pride. His stomach flipped like a time turner, churning bile rising, ears ringing. "We're going to have to take it. I can't let him win."

Harry saw in Riddle's eyes when he realised he had no choice. A slow, burning fury, an icy kind of disappointment. Harry's love for his friends, for every being in the castle, was weakness. And Riddle had no difficulty in telling them _just_  how weak they truly were. "I don't usually help the witless fulfill their unchanging, doomed-to-fail plans. But as your death is mine," Riddle spat this hatefully, "I will teach you the Legilimency necessary to manipulate your own dreamscapes."

Harry opened his mouth to argue. Legilimency never blended well with his magic, he could never master it, get a grip. It went too far or not far enough. But Riddle hissed, "Absolutely no negotiating. You _will_  learn Legilimency, and _I_  will teach it to you."

Harry held up his hands. Let Riddle see for himself just how shite Harry was with any and all forms of mind-altering magic. "Alright," he said. "But I'm not very good."

"It's your funeral, mate," Ron added.

Riddle narrowed his eyes, complementary colours dark and brimming, and regarded Harry. "I will _make_  you good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was away in China for a while, but I'm back now! Sorry for the late update.
> 
> Enjoy tho? Hopefully???? I was incredibly jetlagged as I edited this, so I've probably missed eVERYTHING ever. And I was also incredibly jetlagged as I wrote the next chapter, so I don't even know if that one's actually coherent. I'm sorry ;a;;;


	4. Mindscaping

"You're squandering your talent."

Harry had hidden himself away in the Room of Requirement as soon as classes had finished, awkwardly skirting away from Professor Slughorn, Riddle's disparaging comments ringing in his head. It was clear he was impatient, pushing angrily at Harry's mind, tinged with concern. Not for Harry, he imagined, but for Riddle's own life. By lunch, he'd already promised to teach Harry everything, if he'd only hurry up, before his mind was crushed like a grape.

Not in those exact words, but Harry got flashes, sentiments of being squished. It was decidedly uncomfortable.

"I don't _have_  any talent," Harry snapped. He was no less abysmal than usual at Legilimency, and it was particularly unhelpful to attempt on some hybrid ghost of a man still living.

"You share my skill," Riddle said. "Our magic is complementary. If I can perform Legilimency, then so can you. Don't be so pathetic as to let this power pass you by."

"I can't even get ahold of it in the first place." Harry shrugged. "Look, your shields are basically unparalleled, you know that, right? Lower them and maybe I'll have more luck. I'm just a beginner, after all, oh great Lord of the mind."

Riddle scowled. "That would not be preferable."

"I've already seen your memories," Harry said. "It's a bit late now."

"You needn't see any more."

Harry crossed his arms, exhausted. All he'd managed to grasp in the last few hours was a single exasperated, _"Honestly, it's hardly difficult."_

"How about I do anyway?" His nerves were fraying, and he'd never been a paragon of patience himself. "You too scared? I'm joined to your soul, and you're fine with that. What's a little memory-sharing between friends?"

"Childish taunts won't work on me," said Riddle. "You don't need Legilimency to feel my emotions, unfortunately for you. You can tell I'm not scared in the least."

"You're annoyed, impatient, and worried you'll commit some sort of 'post-corporeal suicide' when I throw myself in danger and inevitably try the _other_  Tom's patience, then get myself -- and by extension you -- killed. Yeah, I can read your emotions just fine."

The green light in Riddle's eyes glinted. He did that, that odd expression, so much like Harry's own, whenever he said something he found funny. "I don't need my other self to commit post-corporeal suicide," he said, wryly. "A few more hours of this and I'll do it myself, right here."

Sometimes Harry wondered if Voldemort ever laughed at his own jokes, so caught up in his own arrogance he'd miss how strangely humanising such a gesture would be, or if that was solely Harry's own influence, sixteen years of it, on this portion, so much less tainted, of Voldemort's soul. "Just lower your shields a little," he begged. "I'm hungry, and at this point, I'd seriously rather be studying. Hermione-style."

"Only a fraction," Riddle warned. "I will not go easy on you just because you feel a little tired, Harry. My counterpart wouldn't even consider something so... trivial."

"Whatever you think is best," Harry demurred.

Riddle sighed, then steeled himself. "Alright, go ahead. Try it now."

Tentatively, Harry reached out, testing the boundaries of Riddle's mind, feeling the current of his thoughts humming behind purposefully-weakened walls. Then, gently, he reached in. He got words, deeper feelings, sometimes full thoughts. "Is that alright?"

"It's background noise, so to speak. That's listening passively to someone's mental landscape, but to delve deeper, you need to search less... meekly. Too overt, and the subject will notice your presence, but too cautious, and you'll see superficial surface thoughts."

Harry cradled and turned the door to Riddle's mind, peaking in, like a crack through the cupboard. "I don't know how much is too much and how little is too little."

"I will teach you that. First, go a little farther."

Harry pushed forward, and got an image, Riddle staring at him through his own mismatching eyes. Then feelings, _pleasure, pride, vindication._  Then the thoughts, smooth, _He's doing so well. Impressive for a beginner, but understandable as the current holder of my soul. He's using it to his advantage, for once. Oh, there, I can even sense him, what a fascinating mental footprint. Hello._ And jumbled, _Maybe my counterpart won't kill him. He has reasonable defence. Perhaps not in Occlumency. Needs more work. But when? Classes, too many classes. Honestly. Like Slughorn._

And there, Harry fell too far.

 _Slughorn. What a pliable man, like clay. Undeserving of his tenure. He has the skills, but not the strength of character. So weak. I could already meld him, mold him, at only fourteen. It was the highlight of the entire period. They all were, interesting puzzles of people. Those that could play the game, and those who let the game be played for them. I had plans, I've fulfilled a great deal of them, but not all (more, I need more). I got out. Took with me the people I needed. Graduated a half-home. Away from the orphanage. He never let me stay, the old man. Always sent back_ there.

He was plummeting, now, into Riddle's memories, his recollection of every single second spent in a waking hell. He tried to grasp at the present, but it slipped from his hands like sand.

* * *

The world fell away and reformed to a small, cold room. Harry was shaking on the bed. Chips of the wallpaper were floating around him, lit by a strange kind of light. A city trying to turn invisible. Useless posturing, it could never work. Not unless there were more people like him. And yet, against the rise of the buildings, he was still so small. Disgusting. Weak. He would grow himself.

His ears ached against the wail of a raid siren. He'd heard them before, but never like this, not when he was so tired. The cuts on his small hands stung. He'd fought them, but they'd pushed him down. He had to be stronger, above cowering with bleeding palms, unsettled by useless sound.

It hurt. It had always hurt. They'd always hurt him. But now, he would rise from it, not snivel like some frightened rabbit. He would ignore pain. So _trivial._

He would be the one to push them down next time, to see if they got up. They were nothing if they didn't get up.

* * *

Once more, the world flashed before him, to a playroom. Here, he would shove back. He would test them until they failed, until he won. And if they never failed... if they never failed, he would _use_  them.

How he wished the bombs fell on this miserable building, how he dreamed of escaping this place.

"What's the matter, Tommy? You scared? You were crying at the sirens last night, weren't you? Bet you've been crying since you got born. Bet you been crying ten years straight."

Harry, no- no- Tom. Tom sneered. They belonged in the boxes in these rooms, such playthings. Stupid, foolish. He held out a hand, gripped it tightly, whatever it was inside him ("freak", always the freak), and in painful jerks, they knelt, crumpling like dolls to the floor, tears streaming down their lilywhite cheeks.

He stared, and they struggled. Yet, when he let go, still no-one rose.

Weak. Pliable. Hollow nothing people, wasting air. Such empty husks with such an ability to be cruel. What misplaced potential, what walking mistakes. He would show them cruelty, let them taste it, if such paperblank animals could taste.

* * *

Harry gasped, and with a jolt threw himself backwards against the wall. The sharp smack of flesh on stone, the warm smell of wool and quill ink, the rugs on the floor beneath him. He was back. He'd made it back.

He panted, let sweat drip down his temples. "What was that?"

Riddle only looked ahead, over his shoulder. "Memories. Don't break walls you don't want opened, Harry. I warned you."

He swallowed down bile.

"I think that's enough for now. We'll return to your studies tomorrow. I believe you were hungry? Dinner should be ready. If you'd rather sleep, the bed's still unmade, as you left it. Though that doesn't seem the type of thing to bother you."

He soothed down the raised hairs on the back of his neck. "I'll grab a small bite," he said. "Then I'd better sleep. I'm knackered." He hesitated. "I'm alright, I mean, I'm not the one who minds broken walls... but about the orphanage, I'm sorry you had to-"

Riddle glared. "Weasley mentioned the pity, didn't he?" Then, he faded back into the shadows of Harry's mind, a familiar, almost comforting presence.

The Room's doors seemed to open faster than usual. Or maybe he was just imagining things. He'd been known to do that.

* * *

Ron and Hermione had left him a small plate of sweets, and assured him there was enough food left at the table to feed a troll.

The dining hall, with its magnificent night sky, lit tables upon tables of leftovers. And Harry could only barely remember being hungry, or what the warmth of the candlelight against his hands felt like, flickering aside his fingertips. He was tired, so tired, like _he_  had been the one in the orphanage that night. But Riddle had been. Riddle _had been._

He'd slept in the cold, too numb to remember how hunger was supposed to feel, some dull hollow ache.

Harry gathered up a few assorted plates, eager to return to his dorm and curl up against the blankets, the warming charms, the sound of soft breathing, and silently left. The small passageways were lit faintly by the dining hall's shining starlight, so he focused his right hand, free from Lumos, on balancing some crumbling Bakewell tarts.

Absurdly, staring at the flaking pastry, he felt the sudden urge to call for Riddle and ask him if he might like to share a meal. It was stupid, the whole thing, and he tried to dismiss it as a lingering streak of madness from shared minds, but still, the thought niggled at the back of his mind all through the hallways. It was ridiculous. Hell, he didn't know if Riddle _could,_ in fact, eat, or if he'd take offense to the offer and assume he was getting a taste of Harry's pity, not of jam and almonds.

But something half Gryffindor and half his own idiocy, an absolutely horrifying burst of warmth and sympathy for his parents' murderer, sent him to the Bridge and stood by as he whispered Riddle's name into the shadows.

And slowly, trickling from the back of his mind, Riddle's hauntingly familiar magic returned, soon lighting the careful arrival of his physical body. One eyebrow was raised, bemused, but all else was still. "Well?" Riddle asked, after a quiet, and crossed his arms. "Did you call me by accident?"

"No," Harry burst out, quickly. "Uh, I, well- I called to ask if you wanted to share this with me." He held out a plate, steam still rising from perpetually-hot mashed potatoes.

For the first time, Riddle seemed genuinely surprised, his mask of indifference failing, revealing wide eyes and a slightly parted mouth. "You're offering me _food,_  Harry?"

Miraculously, it wasn't mocking but simply shocked, a blank sort of attempt at understanding, and yet Harry felt stupid nonetheless. "Yeah. There's too much here, and I don't want it to go to waste."

"Don't you have friends to give it to?"

Harry knew that insisting Riddle _was_  his friend would get him as close to killed as Riddle could manage, so instead, he said, "No-one's even up at this time of night. Do you want some or not?"

Riddle blinked. "I imagine I could eat if you leant me more strength and thereby allowed my body a more physical presence. Do keep in mind we're allies here, and I don't intend to drain you or the Weasley girl of all your lifeforce."

"How do I do it?" Harry asked. "And only a little. You can bat your eyelashes at me all you want, but I'm not having a repeat of Second Year. I'm not."

"Bat my eyelashes," Riddle repeated, dry. "Consider, you've no skill in Legilimency, so a mental attempt would likely fail. Just reach out and touch me, and it should work." He smiled, small, at Harry's horrified look. "You'll only need to think about it for a moment, as opposed to a very long time. Can you really not stand to touch me for a simple second, Harry?"

"Whenever you touch me, I usually end up screaming on the floor with a bleeding forehead, so _really,_ pardon me if I want to exercise some caution."

"But then I _want_  to hurt you," said Riddle. "Now I'd just like to taste again. I hardly think that will translate over into pain. Perhaps you'll feel hungry." He dared Harry to protest at this with just a look, and Harry held up his hands.

"Alright, okay. Where? Your arm, or?"

Riddle extended a hand, so disturbingly unchanged from his counterpart's. Long, white, bony, skeletal fingers, only ever moving gracefully and precisely. Harry looked down at it, prim and smooth, and said, "The other you doesn't trim them." Riddle only tilted his head. "Your nails."

This got him an amused look. "Hmm? I'm sure that's very useful if I ever find myself in need of... keeping someone in their place. This body is young, from a time when my identity was kept secret, and having hands like claws wouldn't have aided my cover." Riddle paused. "Is that really the first thing you choose to ask?"

"Just... sort of had to." Harry shrugged, and clarified, "You've got unique hands."

"I'm surprised you'd remember such a small detail."

"Hands aren't small. Especially not when they're holding a wand, or gripping your throat, or digging into your scar. Thank you, by the way. A swift punch would've been better."

"Where's the fun in that, Harry?" Riddle said. "Now, come, even brushing fingers would do. It's not so hard."

He bristled. Of all the things he hated most about Voldemort, the downtalking -- the blatant patronisation -- that was the worst. Angrily, he thrust out a hand and gripped Riddle's own, tightly, feeling him tense, startled. "Merlin," he snapped, "it's so difficult."

Riddle stared at their joined hands. "I ought to use reverse psychology more often, if it gets you to respond like this."

"How about you ask nicely?"

"But I did 'ask nicely'. The Imperius curse wasn't involved."

Harry glared. "Treating me like a toddler isn't asking nicely." Slowly, a smirk rose on Riddle's face, leaving him unsettled, just slightly off-balance enough to feel like he was about to fall. "What's so funny?"

"You still haven't let go of my hand. Tell me, do you feel any ill effects?"

Harry snorted. "Are you getting smug about _not_  hurting me?"

"I've proved you wrong. You act like I should be predictable."

"Same goes for you," Harry mumbled, as an idea rose in his mind. He'd spent too much time around Fred and George. "Come on, Tom, the tower's this way. You can keep up, right?" And with that, Harry tugged on his hand, and dragged him along, stumbling forward down the hallways.

"You know, if you'd like me to stop treating you like a child, you might want to stop acting like one." Riddle regained his footing and matched his pace, but still he kept ahold of Harry's hand. "Just a thought, Harry."

"I bet this mash would actually _hit_  you if I threw it," he threatened, and Riddle only laughed.

* * *

He sat on his bed, swathed in silencing charms, hungrily swallowing down as much food as he could. Riddle sat across from him, looking unimpressed with his gusto, eating in measured, slow bites, taking care to precisely cut off no more than he could chew. "You'll make yourself sick," he said, faintly disgusted.

"I'm starved," Harry replied, not unkindly. "Give me a break."

Riddle continued slicing his bloody Brussels sprouts. Harry didn't comment. "One never gets a break when fighting the Dark Lord."

"Ha, ha, my sides."

"Speaking of-" Here, Riddle set down his knife and fork, and folded his hands in his lap, "-we'll have to be quick in teaching you how to fortify your mind. I suspect we will try to attack soon. Or at least do more than sit around idly."

Harry stopped chewing for a moment. "What makes you think that?"

"I know myself."

He returned to his food. This wasn't really all that insightful information, but Riddle still wasn't wrong. Voldemort _would_  be getting impatient. "I never would've guessed." He sighed, against rapidly-rising indigestion, and a faint, underlying terror at the entire situation. "What should I do?"

"If he attacks tonight, there's not much I can teach you so quickly. He wouldn't kill you, but he _can_  hurt you. And I'm sure you're aware that has the potential to be worse."

Harry's throat burned. "Can I keep him distracted somehow?"

"Aside from a very base sort of distraction, no. You'll catch him relatively off guard if you do something unexpected, but the trouble there comes in finding something he, in fact, won't actually expect. Even through madness, I can't envision a world in which I neglect to plan ahead."

"How will I hold up in an actual duel?" Everything in him hated asking this question, giving Riddle such an opportunity to brag, but he had to know. He could fight, or give flight, let the predator chase the prey. Not that he'd possibly expect the prey standing any chance at all.

"You know your own weaknesses, and so do I, but I won't underplay your strengths. The Prophecy didn't name you as my equal on some fleeting whim. You and I, we can fight countless times, but on level-footing, it will always end in a draw. One of us has to have the advantage."

"Neither of us can kill the other. I meant what I said, I'll help Voldemort if I can. Everyone acts like I was born into the world just to kill him, but that just completes the cycle, doesn't it? Makes it always end the same way, kill or be killed." Harry shook his head. "I don't want to fall into that trap if I can't. And Voldemort doesn't want to kill his Horcrux. So we're both guaranteed safety. How can either of us get an advantage in something like that?"

"That depends on your definition of an advantage." Riddle hummed. "If you present a convincing reason not to fight, one that's in his own self-interest, he will listen. Before, he had nothing to lose. But now, now you're, to his every regret, precious."

"To his every regret," Harry said, again. "Not to both of your regrets? Really?"

"I want to wield my power with clarity of mind, not... this chaotic, disordered stream of consciousness my other self has caught himself in. I don't regret making you my Horcrux. You're more valuable than you know. In fact, you're the reason I can succeed."

"I'm not helping you rule Wizarding Britain."

"You needn't go that far. We can both get what we want. Your friends will live free, and I will have sense enough to control the Wizarding World without also losing control over myself."

"I'm making you sane for the sake of everyone else, but you'll still be my enemy. As long as you want to ruin every wizard who's not pureblood, and as long as you want to make the Ministry your collection of puppets, I can't work at your side."

Riddle looked at him awhile. "Are you saying, provided I met your two conditions, you _would_  consider working with me?"

"When you're sane and less murderous, yeah. I can't stand any of your techniques, your belief that you're above everyone else, or your cruelty, but in a really, really, _really_  technical sense, I can understand some of what you want to do. The Ministry right now is a mess, benefiting pretty much no-one, and the state of the Wizarding World is... I dunno. It's regressive sometimes. A lot of the time. And as much as you're an awful person who's done awful things, the way you've been treated is just as awful, and honestly half the blame should go to them. You'd be more of an actual stable person if they hadn't let their fears about your future interfere in the way they chose to shape it." Harry stopped a moment to breathe. "That's how I feel. But it doesn't make you any less of a twat, though. The choice to kill all those people, to kill my mum and dad? That was still _your_  choice, and you chose it. You deserve what happened to you, you know. You made your bed, you had no choice except lying in it."

Riddle blinked. "This is why the Prophecy chose you," he said, eventually. "You surprise me, Harry. I couldn't make you my puppet, and I don't think I want to. You can, with enough motivation, be incredibly clever, and treating you like a mindless lackey would be a disservice to that skill, however hidden. In fact, you working by my side voluntarily would be a greater victory than simply defeating you in combat." Some strange, unchecked fire lit in his eyes, curled at the corners of his mouth. "We could do great things together, Harry. A very many great things."

"Yeah, we could," Harry allowed. "But I won't, not unless your sanity gives you the ability to keep your cruel streak in check. I don't work with cold-blooded killers. Especially not remorseless, cold-blood killers, whose beliefs are so utterly wrong and hypocritical, so contradicting that I can't even figure out how cognitive dissonance hasn't just bloody killed you yet."

Riddle seemed even more pleased. "You have such a mouth on you, clever boy. You're lucky I'm beginning to enjoy it. Anyone else would be dead already."

"Why-" Harry began, choked off. "Why would you _enjoy_  it?"

"You're not weak; you'll seek power when it suits you. And you have a mind, a will. You don't kneel at my feet begging to kiss them, like a whimpering, mindless sycophant. Disgusting and pathetic, wasting space and the air we all breathe."

"You chose your Death Eaters yourself."

"They're necessary, but I don't _enjoy_  them. Not like you. I _do_ so enjoy you."

Harry flushed, uncomfortable. Any compliment from Voldemort was usually meant to draw more attention to their parallels, but being called a person by someone who saw no-one as people. That was different. "Thanks," he said. "I think."

* * *

He fell asleep, just like that, lying beside Riddle, stomach pleasantly full, feeling warm-cheeked and a little more hopeful for the future. It was so easy for things to seem peaceful, lying across from your mortal enemy, managing some form of respect and camaraderie. Such a welcome relief from the darkness, the black dog, that always seemed to follow him around so relentlessly.

But he opened his eyes again to a ceiling that was not his own.

Again, it was the strange room he'd first dreamt Voldemort in, or really, that Voldemort had dreamt _him_  in. The amalgamation of some aristocrat's mansion and what looked like something out of the Slytherin common room, still with the faint glow of the fireplace, and the empty black of night outside. The closer he looked, the more it seemed the moon and stars were shrouded by trees. The estate below was shadowed and indistinguishable.

It, objectively, looked fairly macabre and haunting, but the warm light illuminating the bed's deep green velvet blankets and silk sheets made it feel almost comforting. Falling gently against the small armchair in the corner, and brightening the dark, dark wooden desk, covered in neatly stacked papers, ink bottles, and quils. Not peaceful, but settled, for the moment.

Voldemort's mindscape. Specifically, the bedroom in Voldemort's mindscape. He knew anyone who'd trained as long as Riddle would have a complete mental scape of the grounds, every nook and cranny, every hidden room of the house, top to bottom. He wanted to explore, to gather information without Voldemort's knowing, just by reaching out and lifting it from his mind. But he wasn't well-enough prepared. For now, he'd just have to leave in much the same way as he came, unseen.

Carefully, he snuck forward, past the door, into the hallway, and hoped, for Merlin's sake, it wasn't soon to be Voldemort's bedtime. He needed to find an exit, or a place to hide while he worked on mentally creating one, however the hell that worked. If Voldemort saw him, he'd have questions -- questions Harry couldn't answer, that he needed more time to learn how to mentally protect -- and Voldemort would stop at nothing to forcibly pry them out of his mind. He had to remain unnoticed.

He wouldn't ever have called himself a fantastic spy, not with his tendency to go running blindly into things, he'd admit, but he wasn't _atrocious._  He did a decent job of not waking up every student in the dorms on the days he woke up early, sweating and ill, remembering the Ministry, the shattered orbs on the floor.

Except Voldemort was beyond talented at sniffing out every doubter in his order. And he was literally bound to Harry by soul.

His throat tightened, swallowing around dawning realisation that Voldemort _would_  find him; it was only a matter of time. Of course, Harry would push forward anyway, because he needed to leave, to be alive to exploit the link that tethered him here at a later point in time, and because the thought of hiding away, snivelling and cowardly in the mind of his parents' killer was downright repulsive. But he _would_  be found. And what would he say then? _"Sorry I accidentally stumbled into your mental mansion in the middle of nowhere! It was completely by accident. Can you conveniently let me go now? And maybe not ask questions about how and why I was even mentally hanging around here in the first place?"_

His footsteps seemed to echo louder than stones dropped into the Great Lake, ringing through the hallways and setting his hairs on end. Soon, he was panicking, rushing down every unchanging corner, feeling as if he were running himself in circles like a hamster on a wheel. No end opened up to an exit, and all of it -- the doors, the walls, the decrepit lights -- began to blend into itself after a while.

Panting, desperate, barreling through an endless maze, part of him wondered if being alone here was perhaps an even worse fate. Everything was so cold, so _angry_ ; nothing felt like home, and the faster he ran, the more twisted the house seemed to become.

And after an eternity, he tumbled into something slightly warmer, slightly softer, but still just as angry. He fell back, horrified, and planted himself against the floor, slipping down slowly until his eyes were on the cracked ceiling. After a second or two, he scrambled forward, until his line of sight was once again on the floor, where, in front of him, stood two bare feet, framed by the trailing tail-end of dark robes. "What are you doing in my house, Potter? Seeking me out again?"

"It's your _mental_  house, not your real-" he stopped. "This is Riddle Manor, isn't it?"

"Very good. It is, at least, a facsimilie of it. My 'mental house', yes."

If only he'd managed more training. If only he had actual control over the way his mind wandered when it slept. "I didn't mean to," he said, truthfully. He truly couldn't imagine a world where Voldemort would be impressed by his daring honesty, but he was too thrown-off to lie convincingly, either. And telling a bald-faced lie would only fix him a Crucio and a swift, _"Try again."_

"You 'didn't mean to'?" Voldemort repeated. He felt something claw at his mind, familiar but so much more vicious. When Riddle read him, it was at least with some semblance of caution, but this incarnation simply tore through without regard to the damage he caused. "No, I don't suppose you did. But I'm afraid you're here now, and Lord Voldemort does have questions for you."

"That I'm not going to answer," Harry announced. "You've got to have guessed that."

"I can _make_  you answer."

Now _that_  was more like the Riddle he knew. "No, you can't. I've learnt Occlumency." _Barely._

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Taught to you by whom?"

"Yourself," he said. "Can't have your precious Horcrux too off his trolley to protect himself, now can we?"

He had a fair point, and Voldemort knew it. "There are other ways I can get you to talk."

Harry shrugged. "You could ask me nicely."

"I am asking you nicely, Potter." Voldemort offered him an unpleasant sort of smile. "I've not yet involved anything untoward in this little conversation, not like-"

"-The Imperius curse," Harry finished, and Voldemort stopped completely. _'You act like I should be predictable.'_  Harry smiled back. "I've heard that before, very recently."

"I will drag you back here," Voldemort said, abruptly. "Every time you choose to obscure information about my other self, I will return you to this house. Ceaselessly. Until you talk."

"Do you have complementary tea? Or do you treat all your guests this well?"

This Tom Riddle was less impressed by Harry's untimely sense of humour. "Does laughing help you pretend you're not in as much danger as you are, Harry?"

"Yeah. You should try it some time. Funny is a good look on you; I've got personal experience."

Voldemort stepped forward. "What do you mean by that? Do you intend to bait me with these vague statements? Do you _enjoy_  returning to his place, boy, or have you simply lost ahold of your sanity?"

"I enjoy you," Harry parroted. Without context, he'd probably convince Voldemort he _had,_ in fact, gone mad. Which was a lot better than having him think Harry knew everything. He didn't -- know, that is. But he'd seen more than he should've. He'd seen the orphanage. If Voldemort found out Harry'd been snooping around in his memories, his reaction would be a lot worse than Riddle's, and that in itself was distinctly awful to deal with.

But Voldemort only blinked. "You _are_  trying to bait me. Interesting. Do you want me to find out?"

"Yes, because I'd like two of you in my life." But honestly, it wasn't really all that untrue. The more he could compare the younger Voldemort with the older, the more he could learn that neither would tell him. And in the event that Riddle's knowledge about the locations was outdated, Harry would need to know all he could about Voldemort's behaviour, his life, his past, present, and future.

"This situation isn't unfavourable to you," Voldemort continued. He would never allow himself to be openly astonished, but Harry sensed a certain surprise in him.

"Well, aside from the fact that you could probably kill me."

"But I won't."

"But you won't, yeah. You studying me _is_ making me pretty uncomfortable, though." He frowned. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

"I'm only returning the favour," Voldemort said. "You seem to know a great deal more than you should about me, Harry. It's only fair I know you in turn."

"Let's make a deal, then." It was out of nowhere, but everything he did seemed to be these past few days. "I'll meet you here, and you can 'know me' -- Merlin, if I wasn't uncomfortable before -- and in return, you let me leave before I rot away here."

"If I take this deal, you cannot go back. I won't allow you to 'forget' to follow through."

Harry shrugged. "You _do_  actually have tea, right?" And then he held out his hand to shake, and tried to ignore the sharp ringing in his ears, the fear clawing up his throat, prickling like spiders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACCIDENTALLY BEING ROMANTIC IN AN ATTEMPT TO ANNOY YOUR MORTAL ENEMY IS WHAT FUELS ME IN THIS LIFE.
> 
> It was terribly cheesy, but I have no self-restraint. I apologise.
> 
> (Yes, I'm late. Video games. I keep marathoning video games into the night and early morning. And then having to do school. Probably I need to try to balance my time better. Like, okay, make that definitely. orz. Sorry.)


	5. Regret

Objectively, subjectively, literally, metaphorically, and really in all ways, it was a terrible decision. Frankly, he wasn't thinking, only acting. He couldn't outsmart Voldemort at his own game of premeditation, so being unpredictable, doing stupid shit that could very well get him killed, that was his best chance at being, in Riddle's words, "unexpected."

It was strategically ridiculous, of course. Voldemort was getting far more out of this than he was.

Harry's plan had a high chance of failure, was long-term at best, and so risky it made his head spin. Voldemort was losing nothing from this, other than the sheer grating bother of having to tolerate Harry's presence, and that in itself wasn't really much of a price to pay for someone who sought him out at every chance, and now beyond even waking moments.

He came to lying on the soft wool of the bed in his dorm, lying at an angle, half-turned towards a dip in the covers beside him. In the eerie silence, he heard the quiet rise and fall of breath. Through panic, he squinted against the dark, and made out a tall, thin figure, curled on their side, so silent it was as if they weren't even there. Slowly, he reached out a hand, let two fingers touch the nape of the figure's neck, just to see what his eyes couldn't manage without light. Their hair was short, but not like the ruffled mop of Ron's hair, or anyone else in the dorms', it was too neat, only mussed slightly by the pillow. _Nobody_  in the whole of Gryffindor was that neat, not even Hermione.

Carefully, he laid a hand on their shoulder, only to find their own slowly curling around his wrist. Bony, spindly fingers. Harry blinked. "Oh, it's only you," he said. "I thought a murderer had climbed in while I was sleeping or something."

"And your first course of action against a presumed murderer was to card your fingers through their hair?" Riddle asked, dryly.

Harry flushed. "I just wanted to see if I recognised it. Ron sometimes comes wandering over in his sleep, mumbling about spiders. I was figuring it might be him."

"Why _am_  I here?"

"Why're you asking _me_  that?"

Riddle hesitated a moment. "Harry," he said, slow, after a while, "I only appear when you want me to. Would you care to explain why you want me in your bed at night?"

"That's hilarious. I probably called you in my sleep. I just ran into you. The other you." Riddle tensed. "The only reason I made it out unharmed is because I promised I'd meet with him in his mindscape regularly. I only said I'd talk, but he seemed to take that just fine."

Something like a huff. "I suppose I should just come to expect your increasingly poorly-executed decisions, Potter."

"I'm going to have to talk with him eventually. Why not now?" Harry shrugged. "It was stupid. You don't need to tell me it was stupid; I know. But if I shut you out and never once spoke to you, are you telling me you wouldn't _push?_ "

"Oh, I would," said Riddle. "But that would assume the presence of a rapport, a camaraderie. Why do you imagine Voldemort would find himself so bereft, so hollow without your company that he couldn't possibly leave you be?"

Harry looked him earnestly in the eye. Their interactions, with every counterpart, in every time and dimension, had consequences. "Because I've got his soul. I have _you._  I know you, both of you. He likes more than just equal footing, and so he's trying to get the step up."

"You know the things he'll ask won't be trivial smalltalk, then. You know he will want to know parts of your life you've kept very, _very_  well-hidden. Like I have, and like I _had,_ with the orphanage."

"It's a fair trade. I'd let _you_  see, but your counterpart... would he respond the same way? Doubt it." Harry winced. "Really, is he capable of anything but loathing downtalk? Or worse, pity."

"You imply I _wouldn't_  talk down to you upon receiving one of your memories?"

"The orphanage is more real to you. Voldemort is..." Harry wrinkled his nose, trying to find the words. "He's practically sloshed -- completely numbed himself to your past, but it's still sharp for you, here, like this. You can still understand what it feels like, that kind of, uh, aching emptiness. You know. So, yeah, I'd share with you. But I'm hesitant about him."

Riddle regarded him a careful moment, then smiled, small, approving. "As correct as that may be, he wouldn't be reliving our _own_  memories, now, would he? He'd be reliving yours. To which he cannot possibly have numbed already."

"Then we can use this," Harry said, torn from regret into a small slip of hope. "Right?"

"It was still a thoughtless action executed just as thoughtlessly. But we both may be able to gain from this, yes. See that you find a hint of impulse control before your next action." Riddle curled over, and said, quieter, "Your Gryffindor luck will run out eventually."

* * *

The day passed like he was walking through honey, a slow, cloying trickle, itching at the back of his throat. Memories of the night made him feel vaguely nauseous, the claustrophobic sensation of the hallways closing in on him, the sick smack of running straight into Voldemort, wandering alone in some half-formed house.

Riddle had the same unsettling effect on him, the same nondescript feeling of something being terribly wrong, but he could at least wrap his mind around him most of the time. Riddle was by no means predictable, but he was logical. A cold, sick sort of logic, but still understandable. Voldemort had a very tenuous grasp on being rational, from Harry's limited experience, too clouded by the fog of rage and paranoia to make any steps they could map out.

It made him uncomfortable to admit, even to himself, that he didn't much like making Riddle mad. It was that same rage, like ink, staining him for hours afterwards. If Riddle, in any form, was angry, Harry would walk around in a haze, snappy and biting, occasionally mindlessly vicious. He'd get jumpy, too, like a cornered animal. He'd never shared Riddle's emotions as potently as he did the anger -- not sadness, not joy (if a Dark Lord was indeed capable of experiencing it), not even true fear. Just twisted fury.

Hogwarts itself hadn't truly felt safe in a long, long while, but this- this _seventh sense,_ a sudden unwanted gift of Voldemort's innate awareness, it only heightened his more suspicious side, behind the bravado, the courage, the recklessness borne from Gryffindor spirit. His suspicion had always been distinctly Slytherin, the little broken shard of Tom Riddle's soul shoved, wrongly yet easily-missed, into Harry's already whole consciousness.

Now the walls seemed more like a cage, protective like a diver from a shark, shrouding him from the outside world, sheltering its other students in a faux secure bubble, all to themselves. It worried him, this enriched cynicism, bitterness, and distrust. Riddle had hinted that his fragmented mind would have entwined itself within Harry's own, snaring and barbed. He had hinted Harry could not purely be himself unless the Horcrux was removed, and even then, Harry felt sure he'd find, completely without intent, that a part of himself would've gone with it.

He would have Riddle's distrust, but Riddle- Riddle would have Harry's capability to care for and love the people around him. As Harry's paranoia had crept on him, so would Riddle's new-found ability to experience empathy in full. It was a fair trade off, all things considered, but, still, it made him feel slimy, filthy in some unknown way, fearing that Riddle might, in the end, have to defeat _him_  to fulfill the Prophecy and bring peace -- that their roles might be irrevocably reversed.

* * *

The sinking, antsy feeling remained and, in fact, worsened as evening fell. The sense of wrongness was so intense that, by the time he arrived at his dorms, everything had taken on a surreal, dream-like haze, like trying to see through tears and vertigo. Things had been wrong since Harry's stupid decision in the night, but now he felt that same roiling guilt oozing off in waves from the rest of the dorm. It was written in everyone's faces as he passed through the Fat Lady's painting, this shattered sort of look Harry had seen once and decided that was enough, but found himself unable to escape.

Hermione was sitting on the sofa in the Common Room, looking only a few shades darker than death. Ron had his head in one hand, the other clenched in the fabric of his trousers, all scrunched up like he was in pain. "What's happened?" Harry asked.

"It's horrible," said Hermione. Her eyes were wet, but she remained remarkably composed. A terrible part of him thought that must've been thanks to all the practice. "You-Know-Wh- I mean, Voldemort, he's been killing muggleborns who've been particularly... outspoken about their feelings towards him." She breathed in, a little shaky. "He's after dissenters. It's not very surprising, naturally, but I just. You know, there were whole families among the victims? I don't mean parents and children, either, I mean- grandmothers, uncles, in-laws! Cousins five times removed, as well, for all the good that would- just completely- completely ridiculous."

Harry made an aborted attempt to say something, but the bottom of his stomach had dropped out, and he felt suddenly cold to the core, like Riddle at the orphanage. His fingertips were numb, slightly, and he raised a nail to his mouth and bit down, as if that would make the pain register.

He'd just volunteered to give the very same man information. And now he'd flown into a murderous frenzy, like he was trying explicitly to prove just what a terrible decision Harry'd made, just how much he'd come to regret it, that simple remorse wasn't enough.

He thought he might be sick, but no, he hadn't been hungry at breakfast, or lunch, or after the long hours in class. He'd spent his free periods staring at the walls; food had been the last thing on his mind. There was nothing in his stomach to come up, so he stumbled his way past the sofa, and gestured towards their bedrooms. "I'm- I've got to- I-"

"Yeah, mate," Ron said. "It's alright. Go get some sleep or something. We all need it, right?"

He nodded, rose slowly, and somehow dragged himself up the stairs to collapse onto his bed. His throat was in knots, and abruptly he realised he deserved this. He'd _caused_  this.

Beside him, the bed began to dip against a newly-formed weight, and when he craned his neck to the side, Riddle was sitting beside him, hands folded in his lap. His face was carefully blank.

"Why'd you have to go and do that?" Harry asked, voice cracking.

" _I_ didn't make that decision," Riddle said.

"But you bloody well would've if you weren't trapped here with me."

"Yes." For a split second, Riddle seemed saddened by this. In a very light sort of way. At Harry's confused look, he said, "It's a choice with a very satisfying beginning and middle, but the end hasn't done anyone any favours. Not even me." He rearranged himself on the bed, so he lay parallel to Harry, and was silent. Then, like he'd pulled the words kicking and screaming out of his own mouth, he offered, "Some part of me wondered what I'd do if I never managed to find the chance to slip out of hiding. It was inconceivable that I would remain in the shadows. It was too limiting, never enough. The pleasure of watching a well-formed plan fall into place, the joy of going unsuspected in a sea of your own victim's blood -- to be quite fustian about it -- those were all superficial, fleeting, with nothing to supplement them. There was no true lasting impact, they weren't really accomplishing a thing, and in the shadows, that impact, that visceral terror I wanted to see from others, to harvest, so that I might snare a thousand extra hands to forcibly work on the means towards my ends -- it was all unobtainable. _All of it._ " He sighed. "If I hadn't gained full control over the Ministry, the long-term effects of my choices would've been rendered meaningless. No matter how finely honed my magical talents, without total control, I would never gain the ultimate power -- the power to, eventually, control whatever I chose, no matter how much an undertaking. With -- Horcruxes in my hands -- no concern for my own death, with immortality." Riddle spoke as if the dream, one he was so close to reaching, was true enlightenment. Like, in its achievement, Riddle would ascend to some higher plane, likely to seek power there, and repeat the process all over. "I would exert control from one thing to the next, until I had everything, forever. All of it in eternity."

He propped himself up against the pillows, unseeing eyes fixed on the curtains, lost in his reverie. "I imagined that, once I'd secured my hold on Wizarding Britain, the supplemental glaze of satisfaction I'd been finding in killing would finally gain a base in furthering my cause. And it did. And now it can again." He let out a long, slow breath. "I've no regards for life, but killing is simply a pasttime -- at times a chore -- and not my true goal. Now my counterpart is well on his way to accomplishing this true goal, I suppose he has the freedom to indulge in pasttimes. Especially if, in his eyes, their deaths will only help his tightening hold over the masses. They'll serve to solidify his fear tactics. He's pleased to be able to kill without consequence, a concept a young Tom Riddle had only ever managed to dream of." Riddle shrugged. "That was all very long-winded, but it says this: I feel no guilt over these people's deaths, but I _am_  saddened by them. Only in his eyes are they furthering our cause. For me, I will, by no choice of my own, completely lose your trust. It makes things so much more difficult, and you end up suffering their deaths and your own remorse. Previously a very, very pleasurable outcome. But now, protecting my Horcrux is paramount. It's insulting that part of my soul should suffer."

Riddle stretched and sighed, discontent. "If it weren't for your existence as the keeper of my soulshard, I would've done it, you're correct. But you do exist, and you have frankly tantalising, _alluring_  potential. So, had I been free to make the move, now? I wouldn't have. And I can say with certainty, the only reason Voldemort indulged was because he could foresee no negative consequences. He overlooked them because he does not yet know your importance. He's unwittingly hurt himself, which is a hateful thing to even contemplate. And _that_  is why he wants to know you, Harry. When he realises how important you are, he will stop making mistakes like these."

There was a veritable ocean of information for Harry to process, as he would set to do for the rest of the day. But first, he asked, "You kill for pleasure, but only when it suits you?"

"And it's a very surface pleasure. An excitement to indulge in once in a while should it have no consequences. Not nearly tempting enough to carry out should it be found that there are any."

Harry blinked. Riddle was shamefully forthright. But why? _Why?_  " _Why?_  Why are you telling me all of this?"

"I've lost your trust, and now I intend to gain it back."

Harry stared at his hands and imagined all the information swirling around in them, growing like a fireball. "This is a _lot_  to give."

"And yet not enough. You've proven yourself competent enough to understand that this information, while a lot, cannot be used against me, and will not fall into unwanted hands. I am not losing anything in giving it. And as my Horcrux, it's simply natural that you _should_  know them, to better protect this fragment of my soul."

"That's what Voldemort meant when he said I knew a great deal more than I should about him."

"Not more than you should. He hasn't spent 16 years realising you are more than capable of handling this without putting me in jeopardy."

"Look, I trust you, relax. I _already_  trusted you, as stupid as that is."

"But now you won't doubt yourself about it. You know I only do things for a purpose. Everything else is trivial entertainment I can easily put aside. I have no self-serving reason to betray you, and now you can more clearly see why. Yes?"

"I have this feeling like I should be thanking you."

"None necessary. Repay your gratitude simply by resting, soothing your friends, and learn from this that every action has a very long-winded explanation's worth of consequences. Please comport yourself with more care towards your actions in the future."

"You really are a self-assured git." Harry sighed. "Makes me glad you're on my side. You're right about us being able to do great things together. Have you really never considered working with us?"

"With you, yes. Perhaps even the more intelligent of your friends. But your organisation, it fights for peace that will allow the Wizarding World's shameful corruption to continue. You're all humiliating yourselves and tarnishing the very name of magic."

"Not just tarnished, is it? That corruption is directly responsible for your time in the orphanage. It's personal with you, isn't it?" Riddle didn't answer, so Harry kept going. " _I'd_  work on fixing the corruption. And I know most everyone in this school would too. You could pretty much stupidly easily find the same everywhere else in Wizarding Britain. You act like you're alone in that, but you're not. Plenty of people want it to stop."

"Yes, well. My counterpart doesn't know that, unfortunately. He should consider it, you're right. You're worthy of our consideration." He frowned. "But that level of power isn't enough for me."

"Once we've got you back into your body, I'll show you. I'll actually be able to show you there's power in everything everywhere, 'cause I've seen it, and you haven't had the chance to until now. You can have all of that power, too, you greedy arse. You don't have to subjugate everyone else to gain it."

"And how about my predilection for murder, Harry?" Riddle asked, politely.

"It's disturbing. It's wrong. I'd really rather you not, if you can control it. But, worst comes to worst? There are a very, very few people in this world who deserve it. You seem to have this fantastic knack of choosing all the wrong people, though, all the ones who _don't._ "

Riddle considered this, quietly. "We need to reunite my split soul with my body as soon as possible. We need the remaining Horcruxes," he said. "Power in everything, everywhere? Every day my counterpart, and all my shards, go without knowing this is a disgrace."

Harry looked at him, at the fervour burning through his eyes, and thought, _You can't let yourself be too weak to seek it, can you? You really_ can't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ myself this chap tho: IT'S NOT SO FUCKING CHEERY ANYMORE, IS IT? 
> 
> ;A; oops i write like an emotional and tonal rollercoaster
> 
> from my own notes: "alSO LIKE COULD U FINALLY START THE HORCRUX HUNT PLEASE??? GOD"
> 
> yes i know i'm sorry. what the shit rite? this is supposed to be a horcrux hunt!fic. we have the horcruxes. where's the hunt??? i'm only seeing pseudo-philosophy from sleep-deprived college students who are getting in way too deep with harry potter meta analysis.


	6. Rot

Again he awoke to Riddle Manor, swirling mist curling around the edges of the masterbedroom window, fireplace crackling softly. There was a greater feeling of peace, settling on him like a blanket, that allowed him to maintain calm. The last time he'd visited the Manor, it had felt that the walls wanted to eat him, that every corridor would run forever, that no doorknob would ever turn. But now it was warmed over, clearer, less twisted and hungry. He imagined Voldemort had gone to sleep quite happy, then.

Really, it was quite lovely like this, with Voldemort happy, and skilled enough to breathe life through dreams into a manor that had once been so decrepit and dark. _Does the real Manor look like this?_  Harry suddenly needed it to, nevermind that Voldemort would never waste time on something sentimental, but there was an ache in a part of him that begged for its restoration, the part that was nestled close to Riddle's soul, that had felt the chest-gripping loneliness, watching the past slip away.

But in all its loveliness, it could still not make up for the obvious truth -- that the house _did_  in fact want to eat him, in its own way. He'd expected to return to Voldemort's mindscape. But why was he here? Why did he keep sending himself here?

Harry lay back against the pillows and kept his gaze fixed on the door. He wasn't stupid enough to make the same mistake twice, and the room was warm, besides. He had no reason to leave. And the keyhole, from this distance, looked as if it led to nothing, or to too much of everything, something straight out of Alice's terrifying Wonderland. So he curled into himself, goosebumps rising on his skin, prickling against the unnatural softness of the sheets. The only thing that differentiated this place from reality was, strangely enough, how sharp and _real_  everything felt. Too accurate, too precise a replica to be anything but someone's own mind.

If he looked hard enough, he could feel Voldemort's presence in the house. Before, he'd only ever sensed him seconds too late, but now he knew what to look for. It was, unsurprisingly, almost exactly like Riddle's, save for its one unique ability to suck the life out of everything that touched it. He felt so hollow, so like his feelings were being drained into a void, the dark vacuum of space, that he could barely look at it for long. A Dementor's kiss was more animated, more filled with life than Voldemort's soul. Absurdly, it gave Harry the image of Tom Riddle, hung like a puppet from a meat hook, watching on in slow, pleased amusement as his own blood dripped into the drains on the floor.

Voldemort had mutilated himself, and he had liked it. The concept was awful enough to contemplate; he had no idea how Voldemort lived it every day as cold, hard fact.

It was just so consuming, so malformed and inhuman, that Harry wanted desperately to have all the Horcruxes with him right there and then, so he could give Voldemort's soul substance again. Even Riddle, only one pitifully small seventh of the completed piece, was brighter and more tangible.

And again, Harry was back in the shattered dust of a thousand prophecies, feeling nothing but pity for the one man who was so set on destroying him.

He stayed for hours like that, watching the flicker of the fireplace, tasting iron as he thought about what was left of Voldemort's soul. He grew dreadfully curious about what on this planet, in the entire universe, could provoke anything other than unfiltered wrath out of such a lifeless person's mind.

Eventually, he felt the black hole, the gaping monster's mouth of a soul approaching, and watched in horror as the doorknob slowly clicked and unlocked, pushing forward to reveal its other half, enclosed in the grip of a pale hand and spindly, branching fingers. "I don't suppose I should be surprised, Harry Potter."

"I mean, no," was the first thing he managed. "Would you believe me if I told you I'm _really_  not doing it on purpose?"

Voldemort was immediately rifling through his mind like a deck of cards. "Yes, in fact, I would. Odd boy, how is it that you always end up here?"

"Yeah, I was wondering the same thing." He shrugged, swallowing, Adam's apple bobbing against the collar of his uniform. "Beats me. But I guess it's what you wanted, right?"

"I prefer some form of scheduling to our meetings, but I'll admit I find your spontaneity... quite intriguing."

Harry chewed his tongue, fingers bunching in the sheets. He was always at one end of two extremes with Voldemort, dancing around him or spitting in his face, but now they were supposed to maintain a _conversation,_  he had no idea how to act. Swaying from insult to half-baked compliment would get him tortured, and Harry was already running dry on both, regardless. Barely any insult would sting, excepting shallow comments on blood purity -- which Harry wouldn't lower himself to -- and all compliments were hit-or-miss. Lying was too transparent, so that ruled out, " _Why, Tom, don't you know how much I admire your startling tenacity and endless capability to murder?"_  But the truth was uncomfortable. So, _"Why, Tom, you know, you're a genius, I'm subconsciously drawn to your complex mind, and I really wish you weren't responsible for so much suffering, because I'd actually love to get to know you in another life, and maybe learn from you, because I want to discover new magic and push its limits, as it's the only escape in my life and what saved me from an abusive childhood, starving and living in a cupboard under the stairs,"_  was also not an option.

Voldemort himself always seemed to know precisely what to say. He could twist a conversation in his favour within seconds, cut unpleasantly deep with just a few words, take advantage of the cold feeling his voice invoked to make listening both inescapable and jarring, the list was endless. And Harry felt like a bumbling idiot in comparison. It wasn't that he thought he was incapable; instead, that he was far from it. The Sorting Hat had been right, and should he put in enough effort, he'd easily be able to master the effect, put to use his Slytherin cunning and resourcefulness, and have an entire collection of followers bending over backwards for him.

He hated everything that made him and Tom Riddle so alike. He hated not knowing what parts of himself were genuine and what parts were donated -- _stolen._  And most of all, he hated not being able to do anything about it.

Dumbledore had told him that their differences were what mattered most, and here, beneath a towering monster with a snake for half a face, it was easy to believe. But next to Riddle, with their shared hair colour, mannerisms, phrasing, backgrounds, magical talents, stupid levels of determination, it was even easier to get lost.

Both of them would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. Harry, the unwavering protection of his loved ones, and Tom, the unwavering control over everyone and everything. And both were confident they would get it.

"You're a great deal more insightful than people give you credit for, Potter," said Voldemort, startling him straight out of his own thoughts.

"Thanks. I'm really shite with Occlumency, though," Harry replied, mouth pulled down into a tight grimace. "Is it really that easy? To read me. As unpleasant as it'll be to hear you brag."

"You present a passable shield when you focus. It's only that you rarely do." He paused, then added, "But Lord Voldemort's skill in Legilimency is unparalleled, and no amount of practice can help you. I'd advise against wasting your time on such a fruitless attempt at defence."

"It's sort of the principal, though, isn't it? I'm not just going to lie down and take it." _Very poor wording._   _Absolutely the worst._ Harry sighed. "You know _you're_  the one trying to teach me, don't you?"

"Where would I find reason to do that?"

"You don't care how much you ruin the minds you read, but with me, you need me to be able to protect myself. Or else you'll have to slip _me_  to Lucius, only then to find Ginny trying to confide her secrets in me, because that's _definitely_  what I was made for."

Voldemort remained blank. "I had hoped he would be less incompetent."

"You didn't actually tell him what it was. He thought it was just some dumb book. Nice job with that, by the way."

This got an even more dispassionate stare. "And why would I be in possession of 'some dumb book'?"

"I dunno. You pried it out of the cold, dead hands of one of your victims? That's probably what Malfoy thought, anyway."

"I only take things of value."

Harry snorted. "Because you make your motives _so_  clear to your Death Eaters."

"You imagine I should? They're far too witless to be trusted with such vital information." Voldemort's mouth, of its own accord, morphed into a self-satisfied sneer. "Certainly it's surprising you've gotten anywhere with planning that flawed. One would expect more from the bearer of our soul."

"Uh, so I'm a shitty strategist because I _trust_  people? Not everyone who works for you is an idiot. Unless your taste is really that awful."

"I suppose you would know about my apparent lack of taste, then, would you not? Being one of my Horcruxes."

"You didn't do that on purpose," Harry protested, weakly.

"No," Voldemort spat. "I didn't."

"I'm feeling the love," Harry muttered. "Don't you want to _use_  me or something? I've got a bit of your soul in me. Surely that makes me an asset, doesn't it?"

"Why do you think I let you stay here?" Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "To entertain me?"

Harry huffed, defensive. "I'll have you know I can be very entertaining. The _other_  you likes me."

"I highly doubt that."

"No, he does! He's way more tolerable, simply because he's willing to listen to me. Y'know, because he doesn't think I've the IQ of an ant."

"I don't think you unintelligent; I know you to be a child," said Voldemort. "There's a difference. Tell me, does my other self appear to be your age? Or is he as I am now, in this form?"

This was a question he could actually answer. "A bit older than me, I think. Or maybe the same age, it's hard to tell. He has all your memories up to when you split your soul and tried to kill me, but he's chosen to be able to blend in, I think."

"He can manifest in the physical world?"

"When I want him to," Harry insisted.

"You _want_  me to appear to you?" Voldemort seemed chillingly pleased by this.

He flushed, and picked at the sleeves of his shirt. "I _said_  the other you was more tolerable, didn't I?"

"And if I were more willing to listen to you?" The slits of Voldemort's nostrils flared. "Would I be tolerable then?"

He crossed his arms. "I'm not stroking your ego."

"I'm simply determining whether I'll have to use force to get you to listen to me, or if you'll do it willingly."

"I already willingly listen to you!" he snapped. "I just think you're an ars-" He stopped, at Voldemort's look. "Right. Okay. But if I'm polite, you have to be, too. Fair's fair. And this was a deal, so, _yes,_  I get a measure of fairness."

Voldemort seemed taken aback. "You want _me_  to be-"

"Okay, no- well, yes- but I'd- could we just-" Finally, he settled on, "Do you actually have any tea, though? Y'know, mental tea?"

"Mental tea?" Voldemort repeated, and inexplicably, he seemed amused. "Harry, when motivated, I think you'll find I can be a _most gracious_  host. Come, now, child, follow me."

* * *

The manor's kitchen cabinets were gorgeous ornate wood, carved as intricately as everything else Harry had seen so far, perhaps even moreso. Voldemort trailed hands along their sides, as if touch were a more potent memory, nails scraping lightly against wood until finally, they came to rest on the cupboard above the kettle. He peeled open the doors, and there lay a veritable treasuretrove of every tea Harry could imagine, lined by jars of sugarcubes and tins of condensed milk.

Voldemort let a few packs float down from the shelves and into Harry's hands. "What would you like?"

"I'm fine with anything, but I'm guessing now is probably not the time to ask for English Breakfast. Not with a selection like this."

"Or you could simply have as many cups of as many blends as you please."

Harry struggled to see above the overflowing stack in his hands, and set them on the counter. "But I don't want to exhaust you of your tea supply-"

Voldemort eyed him, a small smile crawling its way forward at the corners of his mouth. "This is simply a replica of my vast collection. Feel free to deplete it as you like."

"Oh, right." Harry blinked. "In hindsight, probably should've realised that. Just not used to this much... anything. Except for the meals at Hogwarts. When I first saw those..." He trailed off, and saw recognition light in Voldemort's expression. "You probably thought so, too, right? It's overkill, but kind of a guilty pleasure."

"I thought it beautiful, the first time I saw the banquet hall. I had never seen such a multitude of choices in my short life."

"Do you collect a lot of things then?" Harry shook his head. "No, that's a stupid question, naturally you do. I mean, do you collect all sorts of exotic food then? I can spot at least ten different languages on the boxes up there. I can only imagine your real kitchen."

"Would it surprise you to know I liked cooking, Harry?"

"Well, not particularly. The other you, he always appears to share my meals. Even when he's not been invited." He chuckled. "And he eats _everything._  Even stuff he doesn't like, so he can make a big fuss about critiquing it. D'you still-?"

"Criticise whatever edible thing comes my way? Yes. I only accept the best, and you know that."

"Riddle cares, obviously, but he'll still eat it. I dunno, he didn't get to eat for a whole sixteen years, I can't blame him. And then at Woo-" Harry stopped, and paled.

"At what?"

"Shouldn't I probably just call it The-Place-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named? Right? We don't-"

"How do you know about Wool's?"

"About what?" Harry asked, innocently. "I was gonna say the woods. Obviously. Since you got stuck there after I-"

" _How?_ "

"Practicing Legilimency," Harry said, dropping the front. "Riddle already blew a gasket. I get it. Don't bring that up, speak when spoken to."

"I _let_  you?"

"You're kind of a part of my soul. We just... blend. A lot." Ridiculously, Harry felt annoyance flare at Voldemort's put-upon look. "That's what this whole bloody deal was about, so you can untwist your knickers, and we can sit here and have some tea and not pull out the Cruciatus curse."

Miraculously, Voldemort returned his attention to the kettle being filled on its own in his kitchen sink. "You call me Riddle," he said, eventually.

"He- uh, you- get this look when I call you Tom. Like you got fed a whole lemon. And Voldemort gets confusing. Hard to differentiate between which of you I mean when I say that. So, Riddle. Easier. You don't like it, but it makes you less sour than Tom." Harry paused. "Unless you think I should actually call You Number Two Tom. Since Riddle was your dad's name. But Gaunt isn't really any better."

"And, had I not raised any complaint, you'd have gladly called me... Tom, then?" It took Voldemort a good few seconds to manage the name, and he got the very same look. Harry tried with everything he could not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"Well, yeah."

Voldemort seemed perplexed. "You'd call _me_  by my given name? My _first_  name?"

"I would literally rather throw myself into your next Killing Curse than call you 'My Lord', if that's what you're getting at."

"A first name indicates more than simple familiarity."

"Like what?"

"Fondness comes to mind," Voldemort said, slowly. It was still blood-boiling and insufferably patronising, but tinged with a hint of incredulity that stopped Harry from throwing the packet of tea right into his face.

"To be fair, you do break my sides every time I see you. Hard not to like you after that." He got a stare of complete incomprehension. Voldemort was probably imagining it very literally, all sorts of horrific torture, and some part of him wanted to defend Riddle from that sort of accusation, as absurd as that was. "You've got a wicked sense of humour," he clarified.

"A compliment, Harry? Thank you."

"Well, I don't know about  _you,_ " he began, hesitant, eyes following the steam rising from the kettle instead of locking with Voldemort's. "This is our first proper conversation. And plus, you're trying to 'know' me. Riddle already knows me. He's spent sixteen years stuck with me."

"And here's the first step towards that goal." Voldemort steepled his fingers. "So, you like to be made to laugh. That endears people to you. Even your parents' killer?"

Harry sank defensively farther into his chair. "It's better to be civil." Then, he shot up again. "You being mildly entertaining doesn't mean I don't despise you for what you did to my family."

"Ah, no, but it's enough for us to have this little chat?"

To be fair, he'd been backed into a corner -- far too literally -- at the time, rifling through anything and everything that might spare him from whatever horrific form of mental torture Voldemort doubtlessly had locked away somewhere just for him. And he'd thought talking couldn't be so terrible, not if Harry had control over what he could and couldn't answer. Of course, he'd forgotten that control didn't seem to exist whenever he confronted Tom Riddle. Somehow, he always said what was on his mind. "You're the one enjoying it," he said, mulishly.

_Case in point._

"I'm about to serve you tea," Voldemort told him, blankly. Sure enough, the floating kettle's boiling water was streaming into the teapot, which was settled pleasantly on the counter, surrounded by orbiting planets of various tea leaves. "Tea that you will likely enjoy, if I've chosen correctly."

"What happened to choosing my own blend?" Harry huffed.

"I've given you a blend I think you may perhaps come to love."

"Look- You're just sitting around, making choices for people. It's not about whether I'd have loved it! It's about giving others the choice, their free will. Which is, to my 'genuine surprise', not something you know much about, is it?"

"There are some that would abuse their free will, harness it to bring corruption to the sanctity of magic. _They_  will die."

"Merlin, for someone deprived of it for so long, you'd think you'd understand why it was so bloody _important_ -" He stopped, with a face-twisting grimace.

But Voldemort's expected anger didn't appear, only curiosity. "I know why it's important. That is never something I'll be able to unknow. But those that violate our principals deserve punishment."

"Your principles that are no better than theirs. Your principles like, 'Be pureblooded. Anything else is an abomination.' Do you even know how you sound?" Harry spat, suddenly, slamming his fists, open-palmed, into the smooth tile.

Voldemort looked down at him pityingly. "Mixing magical blood with muggle blood has always been an abomination, Harry. Look at what happened to us, look and see the two worlds were never meant to join, that they sully the lives of the magical in their partnership."

"Because fear _really_  breeds understanding and true unity. And then people fear what they cannot understand. You're literally walking down your _own_  endless cycle."

"You believe _understanding_  would've spared us our suffering at the hands of muggles? They understood perfectly. They saw things as they are true -- the magical are stronger than the muggles -- and fear that instead."

"Maybe if we didn't abuse our power to give them the same taste of suffering, they wouldn't fear us, would they?"

"They deserve retribution." Voldemort flicked a cup into Harry's now loosely-curled palm. "Drink."

Harry sneered at the obvious deflection. They had come to talk, hadn't they? "Blend? I at least deserve to know that about your 'mystery tea.'"

"Assam."

"And how'd you know how much milk and sugar I like?"

This, bafflingly, seemed to amuse Voldemort, mouth curling in his own inside joke. "I made a very educated guess."

"Unhelpful," he muttered, and stared hotly into the swirling tea he'd been presented. He could still see the spirals the milk had painted into the brew, smell the sugar and something half-close to honey. His mouth watered. "How do I know you haven't poisoned it?"

"I suppose you'll have to trust me."

Harry had half the mind to strangle him. "That's likely."

"You trust my other self, but you won't trust me? I would be insulted..."

"But untrustworthiness is something admirable to you, isn't it, _Tom?_ " And at that, Harry downed a large gulp, and made a point of barely tasting it. It was an inch away from hitting the mark, but Harry had drunk too hastily and left a few drops on freshly-wet lips and at the corners of his mouth. It was simple reflex to reach out with his tongue and lick it away, and the flavour hit him before it was too late.

It was perhaps the greatest thing he had ever tasted, and Voldemort was watching with rapt attention, as if Harry's reaction to a cup of tea were some sort of monumental achievement that he'd had the simple pleasure of witnessing. He sucked his lip into his mouth and chewed, then asked, "Where'd-? How'd you-? That was... absolutely brilliant. And you knew?"

"I didn't know," Voldemort said, plainly, but he didn't seem too upset to admit he wasn't omniscient. "But that-" his eyes trailed down from their fixed lock on Harry's mouth to the cup cradled in his hands "-that has been, and always will be, my favourite." He smiled pleasantly. "And so, yours."

"Coincide-"

"Don't." It was sharp, but Voldemort was still stomach-turningly pleased. "I know what you wonder, Harry. How much of your soul truly manifests? How much of what makes you unique is what once made me unique, as well?"

"Oh, so we share the same favourite tea," Harry spat. "The world might as well be flat. I'll be sure to turn to the Dark now. We have the same taste, you see, we _absolutely must_  team up!"

That got him, to his horror, somewhat of a chuckle. "To see us 'team up.' The world would fall to its knees and tremble before us, two who make each other truly _whole,_ in every sense of the word."

"Y'know what, you're right. Guess what else? We could fix _everything,_ " Harry begged. "We could do so much. But all you want to do is kill."

"And all you want to do is save." Voldemort mocked his pleading expression. "Don't you see? When the flesh is rotting, it is eaten away, to heal over anew. There is... far too much rot in this world."

"So you're a maggot, is what you're saying." Harry growled. "Every crazy tyrant before you has said the same. 'The world is sick, and only I have the power to heal it.' Funny thing is, y'know, that they're usually what's making it sick in the first place."

This struck a chord, and Voldemort's magic pinned him like a moth in a museum to the walls of his imaginary kitchen. All the breath left him, and he struggled, weakly, against an invisible grip, wiggling and grasping, futile, at his soft, exposed neck. " _I_ am not sick."

"You are, Tom," Harry said, choking, spit coming in flecks from his gasping mouth. The grip tightened, but suddenly it was a dream. It was a dream and nothing mattered. And he could say anything, _anything_  he wanted. "I mean, _they_  did it to you, but it exists anyway. Your mother didn't let you know love. Wool's told you life was better numb, and Hogwarts gave you the means to numb yourself. They don't deserve to die, any of them, but they _are_  wrong and cruel, _cruel_  people for that, for breaking you. Really, it makes _them_  the maggots, if you think about it. Only your rot? It's still there. But don't worry. I've got it all planned out." He smiled. "I'm going to make you _better._ "

And then he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where the fuck did that last part come from i don't even know


	7. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just throwing in a mild tw for vomiting in the notes here because I used to basically cry if I even heard the word when I was younger. And I don't wanna be that one prick. You know the one. You all know the one.
> 
> Starts at "He woke up with a horrible jolt" and ends at "Harry laughed, slightly hysterical"

Riddle was standing over him, looking paler than milk, even for a half-dead boy. He blinked a few times, but the image wouldn't fade, and his head hurt terribly, and everything was spinning, so he concluded it was unfortunately real.

"I've concluded you've been an idiot again," said Riddle. "A part of me can sense my counterpart's anger. This is like never before. What did you do?"

"I think you put Liquid Luck in my tea," Harry offered. "I _was_  an idiot. I just taunted the hell out of you. And you didn't like it."

"It takes true genius to figure as such." Riddle eyed him. "Why, exactly, did you feel that was, in any way, an acceptable plan of action?"

"I wasn't actually thinking. In my defence, that's not new." Harry sighed, and swallowed against the onslaught of dizziness. "You especially. It's like you absolutely destroy all my filters. Thanks for that."

"The burden of a connection between souls, I suppose." Riddle sat down on the bed, and Harry watched in apt fascination as the covers moulded to what shouldn't have been any mass at all. It was still so strange to face a ghost that wasn't, in fact, actually that dead at all. A part of Tom Riddle had died, of course, along with Myrtle; the first time he ever split his own soul was bound to have a few unfixable fissures. But, not, apparently, all of him. Not enough to make Voldemort immune to Harry's shite brand of insults, at the very least. "We'll need to start work on the Horcuxes immediately. Lucky for you, as much as you're undeserving, there's one far closer than you think."

"If you say it's me," Harry started, but Riddle only laughed.

"No. I'm sure your reaction would be a soothing balm on this... rather taxing day, but no. I don't have time for pedantry."

"I swear, if you hid one in the castle-"

"Of course I did," Riddle told him. "You would've, as well."

"Everyone would've, but you've got way more self-discipline than I do."

"It was a sweet revenge. One of the greatest of insults. To hide something _he_  so reviled within the walls of his own beloved home." Riddle sneered. "What should have been _my_  beloved home, too, had he been in a more generous mood for any of the countless school terms I passed here."

"At least you admit you're still bitter," said Harry. "Voldemort tries to act like he's above all that."

"I _should_  be." Riddle hummed. "I don't know why I'm not. I _do_  have your soul constantly trying to mix with mine. And the Tom Riddle of the past still _had_  somewhat of a soul. I envy him. The current Lord Voldemort, that is. He _is_  having a time of it."

Harry glared. "Murder is an absolute riot. Genocide, even better. Definitely a great time. Mad, really. We're all at war with him because, secretly, we're just jealous."

Riddle's eyes flashed, lit with self-satisfied humour. It was oddly comforting to see, after staring down Voldemort's dead eyes, even with a warm cup of tea cradled in his palms, snuggled in a luxury kitchen. "Oh, don't be petty, just because I get all the gruesome killing, and you're left here to cry into your pudding in the Great Hall."

"Ha. Ha."

But Harry was smiling anyway.

* * *

Harry woke up again, after a thankfully dreamless sleep, to Hermione and Ron's faces peering at him.

"Your ghost friend said we should leave you to sleep, mate, even though you've apparently done something 'monumentally stupid' and now we have to rush getting all the Horcruxes. Or something along those lines. You've completely mucked everything up again, haven't you? Don't think I don't know that look."

"Yeah." Harry grinned. "Me and you get it all the time."

Hermione tried to hide her snort. "He has a point."

Ron huffed, but there was no heat in it. "I didn't do anything this time."

Harry shifted. The true weight of his complete lack of control was finally hitting him, guilt so potent he could choke on it. His inability to filter his thoughts in Voldemort's presence wasn't just a risk to his own well-being -- which he was honestly so used to sacrificing, he hardly felt -- but also that of his dearest friends. "So, I might've... provoked Voldemort. A bit."

"More than usual," came Riddle's clarifying voice. "As hard as that is to believe."

Harry didn't even startle; really, he was beginning to expect Riddle's little additions to their conversation. Perhaps that was why Riddle seemed to do it so often, because part of Harry wanted to. He wouldn't be surprised at the lengths his own mind would go in trying to keep its own metaphorical head in the sand once confronted with absolutely anything to do with Voldemort. Certainly once confronted with the fact that Harry might be actively seeking his company.

"Explain 'more than usual'," Ron said. "We should definitely be worrying 'more than usual' or it'll blow over with time 'more than usual'."

Riddle was scowling. "The former."

Ron looked at Harry beseechingly. "You're supposed to be _not_  an idiot. What happened to that?"

He wondered himself what exactly had happened to that. If Riddle was right, and the soul bond marred his self-control so significantly, did it also have an effect on Voldemort? Did it affect his Horcrux? Were there limits, or was it closing in more on the Veritaserum level? "I blame his soul." He pointed an accusing finger right in Riddle's face. His nose scrunched, and he looked about to sneeze.

"It's not my fault. It's simply the nature of a Horcrux."

"You're the one who bonded our souls."

"By accident."

"Accidentally on purpose." It was a mistake in Voldemort's eyes, in Harry's eyes, in everyone's eyes, except for Riddle's. He was so insistent that this turn of events was a blessing of fortune. But so far, Harry had done nothing but act a fool and take the piss out of the Dark Lord Voldemort. "You said you didn't even regret it."

"I don't," Riddle promised. "Well, the control issues are regrettable. Neither of us seem to be able to keep our thoughts to ourselves. But there are worse fates. Going mad, in this instance, seems to come to mind as a pertinent example."

"I need to find a solution to the control issues, or I'm bollocksed. I'll say something that makes Him snap, and Errol will end up delivering a nicely wrapped-up parcel of my head to your doorstep."

"I don't enjoy beheading," Riddle said, calmly. "It's too... uninvolved."

"Uninvolved?" Ron asked.

Riddle turned to him, face twisting up into a manic sort of grin. "They don't scream enough." Ron paled, gaped like a fish, and made choked off noises. Riddle attempted to keep his expression firmly under control, and failed miserably. He burst into high, amused laughter, and said, "I'm not going to apologise, Harry, I had to see his reaction."

"Okay. It _was_  sort of worth it."

"Traitor," said Ron.

"So," Harry started, "anyone got any ideas about self-control? I should practice before we go after the Horcrux, right? Or Voldemort won't need to do anything but wave hello to get its location out of me."

"Occlumency is the most obvious answer."

"But I'm awful at that."

Riddle nodded. "But you're awful at that, yes." Suddenly, his eyes lit. "You can use me to practice! Of course, how could I not have seen- it's the perfect solution-! Your mindscape, Harry, it's never set in stone. I can easily appear in my newer form, and I certainly have a wealth of knowledge about my own inner workings that would perfectly allow me to simulate his current behaviour."

"Which is bloody insane."

"And drunk on power. Yet, I'll not have any issue pretending to be _myself._  And you can stop letting my counterpart intimidate you. I would be insulted that I don't have the same effect, but I haven't truly tried. I chose this appearance in order to keep you calm, but now, in a controlled environment..."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Why do you sound so excited about this?"

"It might just save your life."

"And you might just enjoy terrorising me a little too much."

"It's for a good cause," Riddle soothed. "Come, now, Harry. You need only go back to sleep. I'll take care of the rest."

"Don't get too carried away."

"Why, I would never."

* * *

He opened his eyes to the room with the cupboard under the stairs, the strange blend of Voldemort and Harry that had become both their sanctuaries. He was lying against the cupboard door, feet splayed out before him, Gryffindor striped socks stark against the ornate rug draped over the floor. Across the room, one red eye was watching him intently.

"The other eye doesn't seem to want to be fixed," came Voldemort's voice. Unmistakably older, clearer, noticeably more haughty. Riddle spoke softly, gently shifting all attention away, but Voldemort had no need. It was the same voice in name only, so much more piercing and angry, so much more unsettling.

"You did a good job of that," Harry said, waving a hand over Riddle's new form.

"I'm still working on it." And it was true, too, he could tell, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. From the moonlight shining through the windows, he could see Riddle actively morphing himself. His teeth were still shining white and blunted, his nails still trimmed short, and, much to Harry's amusement, he hadn't changed out of his school uniform.

"Your clothes," Harry pointed out, trying not to snort. His voice wavered a little.

"You should be so glad I'm wearing any," Riddle snapped, and then he was draped in the usual robes, flowing like a Dementor's, strangely as much a part of him as his skin.

"Now you look like yourself."

It was odd to see Lord Voldemort standing in the middle of a room, looking put-upon and slightly out of place. Riddle was leaning against the wall, watching his own nails grow, and flexing his hands against the minimal lighting. "You're right," he said, eventually, "my hands are the same."

"Except for the claws. That's very dramatic."

"All the better to scratch you with." With everything settled into place, Riddle was unmistakably the perfect picture of Voldemort, straight out of Fourth Year. The only tell, aside from one glaring green eye, was the cool expression. The new, improved version was always wearing a cruel sneer, but Riddle's looked genuinely amused. He was teasing, joking, and Harry could see he meant it. They were friends and they were enemies, but Harry could always see the humanity in him. Voldemort's face was devoid of all life entirely. "Are you ready to begin?"

"Almost," Harry promised. Then, he ran forward, and barreled straight into Riddle, wrapping arms tightly around him, burying his face into his robes.

Riddle flickered slightly, to human flesh once more, and then righted himself. "What in Merlin's name are you _doing,_  Potter?"

"Not trying to get myself killed, I swear. I haven't started practice yet. I'm just doing this because I can, now. You won't throw me under the Cruciatus curse for it. Also, you're much more comfortable and cuddly. Warmer. I think you forgot to make yourself cold-blooded."

"You are honestly a great deal less sane than I am, and here we are, on a quest to restore _my_  mind. Are you sure you wouldn't like to seek some form of help?"

"I just need a reminder this isn't _real_  real. You are him, but you're not, y'know? It could be so easy to get you two confused. You've only half lost your mind, but you know yourself. If you two stood next to each other, I'm more than sure you could make it so I wouldn't be able to tell either of you apart. I just want to be able to see it's you, actually you."

"And you think clinging to me like a child is going to help with that?"

"Yeah, I do."

"I can't fault you. You're right, I won't curse you for touching me. So long as you know my future self would never be as forgiving."

"I'll be so glad when you get your mind back. You'll finally stop cursing me out in the real world, away from this mindscape."

It was almost hysterical to see concern in Voldemort's face, staring down at him like an actual friend, a mate from school, not the man who wanted to see the light leave his eyes. "I won't be the same, Harry. You know that, don't you?"

"You'll have all your memories of now. And also the ones of being nuts and torturing me. But I'm making these ones count, so I can hopefully persuade you taking the piss out of me is better than... whatever the hell it is Voldemort likes to do now. Toying with me. Scaring me into doing stupid shit."

"You'll do 'stupid shit' without my help," Riddle offered, pleasantly.

"See? Calling me an idiot is way more preferable to killing my friends and walking around with bare feet in their blood, and my own."

"You call this grounding yourself?" But Harry just nodded. "We'll need to practice soon. Our time is limited."

"Will you hurt me?" he asked, and Riddle practically did a triple-take. "I mean. To make it more realistic?"

If seeing Voldemort in a school uniform wasn't unreal enough, watching his scandalised face at this suggestion was enough to break suspension of disbelief. But it seemed Riddle was genuinely horrified at the thought. "No, boy," he snapped. Panic appeared to be reverting him to old habits, like patronising nicknames. "Of course not!"

"I- you're Lord Voldemort, though?"

"Whatever self-loathing you believe resides in me, I can assure you it doesn't extend far enough to even _deign to think about_  hurting you."

"Just because I'm your soul?"

"You're also my partner," Riddle hissed. "My prophesised equal. Hurting you would be-" He was frantic. "It would be unacceptable. It cannot be allowed to happen."

"You think your counterpart feels the same?"

"He bloody well should!" Given a few moments, he settled slightly. "He does feel the same. Did he do any serious damage, when you provoked him?"

"No. He threw me around a little, but to be fair, I think he'd gone into some kind of fit of rage by that point. No serious damage. No Cruciatus."

"Precisely," said Riddle, and Harry almost wondered if he were trying to convince himself as much as his 'fated partner.' "I don't need convincing." Harry blinked. "We're sharing your mind, Harry, honestly."

"No, I mean- I'm just surprised is all. You're probably the biggest sadist I know. Aside from Bellatrix. She- I tried to cast the Cruciatus on her. I never tried to do that to you."

"With Cedric?" Riddle offered.

"I can't remember, but I'd think any Unforgivables then were more out of fear than anger. There was anger, too. But you tied me up above your father's grave and drained my blood into a cauldron, so. Y'know. Fear."

"We share blood," he replied, as if just remembering. "I wonder if that strengthens the connection. Perhaps it's why I cannot restrain myself around you; I presume Nagini isn't privy to my every whim and secret."

"Yeah, no, you seem pretty secretive." Harry tilted his head, and cringed. "Did you have to use that turn of phrase? You can't 'restrain' yourself? Really?"

Riddle stared at him, searching, for a moment, before huffing out a laugh. "Given our conversation about _hurting you,_  I think I could have said worse."

"Like what?" Harry asked, and then cringed harder. "No, that was the Link, I don't want to-"

"You _were_  just talking about me tying you up, Harry. Have you truly changed your mind about me so fast?"

"If you say the words 'naughty' or 'spank', I will literally stab myself with a Basilisk fang, right this second. I'll go straight to the Chamber of Secrets."

Riddle pouted theatrically. "You're only saying this because I'm not in my school uniform anymore."

"That's so funny," Harry said, looking up to an empty Heaven, an indifferent god. "This conversation is going to kill me before you do." But the Link was inquisitive. "Actually, at school, did you- with people-? No, stop, wait, no, I don't-" He choked. "There was Hepzibah, but I think that was just for the Trophy, oh God, you actually, with _her_ -" He had to swallow a few times, throat clicking, before he could speak again. "Merlin, someone knock me over the head already. Put me out of my misery."

"Yes, not one of my finest moments," said Riddle, and then clapped a hand over his mouth. "You're making it worse," he accused, sulkily, and shimmered like a mirage back into his normal form. "There's no point to this elaborate semi-Glamour if you're asking me about my sex life within minutes, Harry."

"She wasn't your first, was she?" Harry gagged. "Tell me, tell me you had some- dalliance- with some talented Slytherin or whomever- just not her, oh, Merlin's frilly knickers, I'm going to vomit, you- What if you tied _her_  up? No, that just makes it worse. Oh, no, you actually did tie me up, sort of metaphorically- Tom, help, I literally can't stop-"

Riddle put a hand over his mouth, but Harry kept talking into it, muffled. "I think sharing a mindscape is rather throwing our connection into turmoil, wouldn't you say?"

"Do you really want to spank people, though? Is that a thing you're into?" was all Harry said. Riddle looked slightly pink.

Humiliation curled his face into an ugly, twitching scowl. "Potter, that's enough-"

"She wasn't your first, though, right, please?"

"No, of course not, half of the school was after me by Second Year, yes, _Second Year,_  I had no shortage of- No, I wasn't interested until at least Fourth- Would you please stop? This is far more than either of us need to share-"

"Oh, thank Merlin. I was so scared for you. I- really, did you need to kill her, though? Because my soul would have split just sharing a bed with that woman. She was so... slimy. Like a toad. Oh, fuck me."

"Much better idea, you'd be preferable, you're right-" And then Riddle looked frankly ready to explode. His voice was rising quickly to match his counterpart's, even without his Glamour. "Potter, get us out of the Mindscape, now."

"Better idea...?" Harry blinked. "Nice joke. Did you mean that?"

"Yes," said Riddle, his face splotchy and his eyes darting from one end of the room to the other like frightened rabbits. "But anyone is preferable to her."

Harry accepted this. Even Dumbledore was a more likeable option. But, as soon as his stream of consciousness moved along, so did his mouth. Eventually, he was talking so fast he could barely breathe. "Wait, do you think Voldemort still thinks Hepzibah was worth it? Could him loving someone stop the war? Probably someone's asked you that already. And probably you hexed them for it. I bet you did. Anyway. Love. Sometimes you kill people because they can feel it, but sometimes you don't? I mean, you seem okay playing along with Bellatrix's infatuation with you, that works in your favour, but the same applies to a lot of your other Death Eaters, as well, you know, and I think you're observant enough to notice that. Actually, they're super obvious about it. That's strange enough in itself. Do you wear a Glamour around or do they just reject being shallow despite being elitist, prejudiced twats? What was I saying? Oh, loving people -- did I already say that? I think I already said that -- but y'know, have you ever loved before? That's probably a bit prying, but my mouth won't stop moving. God, it won't stop movi- Hold on a sec, my brain's catching up with me now, do you think I'm a lot more preferable because I'm not her or because I look better than her? Tom, I think I'm too curious to stop, you've got to get us out of the Link-"

Harry's inability to shut up for even a second didn't seem to have affected Riddle's comprehension at all. "Much to his regret, yes, he still thinks Hepzibah was worth the trouble, the Trophy had incredible value even before I fragmented my soul. Then: no, it couldn't possibly affect my ambitions. Love? I'm not sure, it's theoretically possible, but that in itself is a lucky guess, considering I tolerate their ridiculous adulation to maintain loyalty; I've _no_  interest in any scared and shaking sycophants, especially not Bellatrix. And I think both, I suppose, but surely you must know Hepzibah pales in comparison to you," he said, and then made a sort of wrenched out screaming noise. His hands were embedded deeply in the curtains, rigid with exertion, and with this comment, they began to come loose. "I can't get us out either-"

"Do you ever get jealous? That they've felt love and you haven't?"

"Of course I do," Riddle said, miraculously condescending, despite how great a window into his soul he'd just unintentionally built. "My mother forced my father to love her. I've never been able to smell anything but blood in Amortentia. That says enough about my ability to feel it."

"It doesn't. Nobody's ever loved you-" at this, Riddle actually winced "-but that's not because you don't deserve it. It's because your magical talent blinded people, y'know. Everyone liked you because of what you could do for _them,_  right? Even the Death Eaters."

Riddle scowled. "You have that same burden, and yet your friends are devoted to you. Purely. Not for self-serving reasons."

"I got lucky. Circumstance and blood purity don't matter as much in Gryffindor. And truthfully, they shouldn't in Slytherin, either, but thanks to your house's founder, you're sort of saddled with that. I haven't been, though. I found people who love me for me, not because I'm the Boy Who Lived."

"You believe your house granted you that luck? Not your inherent ability to come off as caring, genuine, and sweet? Which I had to fake so desperately, and likely ultimately failed at, if we examine Dumbledore's level of trust for me."

Harry, absurdly, flushed a deep red. "Thanks. But it's really my house. It's not inherent. People _don't_  think I'm genuine. They think I'm doing it for more attention, or because I was raised to bathe in the glory of being famous, or because my dad was, according to Snape, an arrogant prat. It runs in my family, apparently. Potters are egomaniacs who live and breathe the limelight."

This got him a disdainful scoff. "Who would really believe that?"

"The whole school. People made anti-Potter badges during the Triwizard Tournament. Cedric was the real Hogwarts Champion. And I won't ever debate that, they were right about him, he honestly was the real Champion. He was brilliant. And then there was me. I'm alright with that. Happy, even. I actually suffocate under the spotlight. But, I just. Thought I might be ignored, not outright- well, whatever that was."

"And yet your friends still love you. Have you ever once doubted that?"

"That's not because of _me,_  that's because of _them._ " Harry looked at him, imploring. "Surely you don't believe it was your fault nobody loved you?"

"Of course it was my fault," Riddle snapped. "I used my friends like Chess pieces."

"They signed up to get used, in the hopes that they would get somewhere with it. You don't think your Death Eaters are actually your friends, do you? Could you sit down and have a chat with any of them?"

"I'd rather destroy my own Horcruxes personally."

"Then they're not your friends! Go make a genuine friend. Then you'll see."

Riddle smiled incredulously down at him. "Believe it or not, I already have."

"Really? Who are they? _Where_  are they?" This was fantastic news, Harry had so much to tell them, he'd make certain Riddle would see that he wasn't unlovable by default. Even if he had to do it himself.

"They're standing right in front of me."

Harry blinked. "See, I knew it was right to hug you," he said. "Thanks. I'm kind of useless at saying things like this. But thanks. I'm glad. After all, I _am_  great."

Riddle shot him a dry glare. "I find I cannot contain my laughter."

"But, if we can be friends, then that just proves my point, doesn't it?"

"I don't look like the man who killed your parents. Thanks to your soul, there are a great many times where I find I don't have to act like him, either."

"I don't know about your other half. But I've forgiven _you_  for it. You want to change."

"I want to be sane," Riddle corrected, gently.

"And, with your sane mind, would you say you'd still go back and kill them?"

"No. I'd want to, I _want_  you as my Horcrux. But you're a talented, kind boy. You have so much magical potential. You never deserved the weight of their deaths pressing down on you."

"I love them so much. What you did is still disgusting. But you've been on your spiral into insanity for a long time." He hummed, thumbing through scattered pictures of Hermione's books in his mind. "What did I read about law? You have to be of sound mind and body to be tried? You definitely weren't. You still meant it, and you didn't feel remorse. But your judgement was honestly shot to hell. Could someone have talked you out of it?"

"Now, they could. Not back then."

"Pretty shot to hell, then."

"And what if I never change? What if I'm like my counterpart for the rest of eternity? Would I still be worthy of love, then?"

"I wouldn't want you to be. I'd hate you. But you'd still deserve it. Even more than that, you _need_  it, don't you?"

Riddle actually startled. "Need it? I wouldn't call it a necessity, Harry. Not like eating, sleeping, breathing."

"It is, though. You die if you can't eat, or sleep, or breathe. But look at how much of yourself you killed. Look at how gladly you rid yourself of your own soul." He frowned. "You're in this state not just because you weren't loved, but because people treated you like you didn't need to be."

"That's what you believe?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

Riddle returned to gazing through the slightly-parted curtains. "It's rather too late now. Who could love me, after this?"

"Give it some time, and we'll be best mates for life. Best soul-mates. Hah. Soulmates." Riddle looked at him blankly. "Because, coincidental- oh, nevermind."

"And when the shards of my soul are restored to my body? Will you be as willing?"

"As long as you want to be friends, so do I. Even if you still look like a big snake." Harry winked. "We can make your Death Eaters think we're criticising their every move by talking in Parseltongue. I could ask you if you wanted to go play bloody Quidditch and they'd think we were completely tearing them down. Just look intently in their direction and make 'hmm'ing noises once in a while. It'll work like a charm."

"Are you sure you're a Gryffindor?"

"I'll have you know that red is the best colour, and green is terrible."

"House loyalty." Riddle huffed. "Green is much better, but you simply won't admit it to yourself."

They stood like that for a while, quiet in the dark, just breathing. "What will I tell everyone?" Harry asked.

"Will they be more or less likely to kill me if they know we're friends, do you figure?"

"I should tell them you want to be. They need to trust you."

"I know. I'm not quite sure why I've told you any of this in the first place."

Harry parroted Riddle's own words back at him, "I asked you nicely."

"And it worked better than Imperius."

The cheery mood dissipated. Harry went white. "You think our connection is worse than an Unforgivable?"

"Not worse. Stronger." Riddle, for no conceivable reason, was wearing a manic sort of smirk. "Soul magic is stronger than an Unforgivable. And I have direct access to it. We both do. What else does our connection hold? The possibilities are endless. The power I seek is willingly lying down in my hands, and the only consequence is a looseness of tongue I find I don't particularly care about. I'm not even bothered!"

"Your counterpart will. You might still be, when we get out of here."

"He will see what I see. The power is too great to give up."

Harry felt ill. "What if he doesn't? What if he's too mad to see?"

"Then," Riddle growled, "I'll make him see."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"Show him this memory."

"And if he still won't?"

"You can just ask him to."

"He won't listen."

"Yes, he will."

"He'll never listen to me!"

Riddle buried his hands in his hair, nostrils flaring. " _He will in the mindscape!_ "

Immediately, the both of them seemed to realise the gravity of that statement.

But before they could appropriately lose their minds, the windows shattered, and Hermione and Ron's voices came echoing through the shadowy night outside. At that, Harry promptly passed out.

* * *

He woke up with a horrible jolt, stomach lurching. His mind was spinning so quickly, his sight was beginning to blur and twist around him. The world was tilting, and he couldn't seem to organise a thought, and he'd just been dosed with the most potent form of mental Veritaserum imaginable. Tensing, half-blind, and dizzy, he leaned over, and was sick on the floor. Hermione held back his hair and rubbed his back, whispering soothing words he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears.

Ron unhappily Vanished the mess. "What happened?"

Hermione hugged him tightly. "Are you alright, Harry? You were tossing and turning and thrashing around, and you'd gotten quite pale and sweaty. We were worried something had gone wrong."

 _Oh, nothing,_  he thought about saying. _My parents' killer just divulged any secret that came to mind because I asked him to. I had complete control over him. And it didn't really bother me, really, I was thinking more along the lines of how to use it to help us win. Everything's just fine!_  He tried, but his mouth wouldn't make any sound.

"It's okay," said Ron. "You've been so composed and all, but I think you have a right to a little breakdown."

Harry half-laughed, half-sobbed. "So, I don't think Voldemort has any filters around me, either," he said. But talking about that still made him want to retch. So instead, he continued, "And I'm beginning to think he might be capable of true feeling, or at least something close to it, even though the Order insists he isn't. He didn't kill me when I pushed too far. That's leaps and bounds compared to, well, every other reaction he's ever had, y'know, with the love of genocide and insane bloodlust and disregard for life. And- and everything." He had to physically lock his jaw in order to keep himself from rambling. "Yeah, no control. Over my speech. At all. That's probably obvious."

Ron made a horrified little sound. "Oh, Merlin, I- does You-Know-Who actually like you now?"

"What? No, nothing like that, I'm not even sure if that would be worse." Harry breathed deeply. "We completely lost control in the Mindscape, that's how I know about the feeling," he elaborated. "I mean, completely. Riddle's very, uh, charming, and it makes him too easy to talk to. And I'm naturally curious, but I have _some_  tact, except for now, because, our connection and all, and- did I tell you he seduced a woman for a Horcrux? I didn't know until Dumbledore showed me. It was awful. And I was so curious, why would he do that, why'd he go that far? And I asked-" Harry was chewing his tongue, now, from the effort of restraining his unbearable babbling. "He said it wasn't one of his finest moments. I asked if, y'know, he had ever truly loved in his life. Which was rude." He shrugged helplessly. "We ended up in an incredibly long conversation about it. And he seemed to want it. Genuinely. To love and to be loved. Fucking _Voldemort._ "

" _Want_  it? Who'd he even love? His Death Eaters? Only the people willing to kiss his arse, but not too much?" Ron said, and then winced. "I- that came out a bit wrong, didn't it?"

"Apparently not his Death Eaters," Harry offered. "No love lost there."

"Oh, okay, I don't have to join you in being sick now, then."

Harry laughed, slightly hysterical. "I feel terrible. He didn't have a choice in telling me, but I kept on asking. Shite. I can't believe..."

"Isn't it an advantage?" Hermione asked. He and Ron turned to gape like fish at her. "I mean, if Riddle talks to you, it's possible that crosses over to the actual, physical Lord Voldemort, doesn't it? And he's more likely to be lenient with you, because you hold his soul." She blinked. "Merlin, I'm not saying do what he did, manipulate people left and right. I'm just pointing out it might not actually be all that... bad?"

"But that interpretation is best case scenario, right, 'Mione?" She nodded, guiltily. "I want it to be a real advantage, but I doubt it crosses over. Things could go worse." Harry smiled wanly. "Much worse. Look, what I'm really worried -- sorry, absolutely bloody fucking terrified -- about isn't that Voldemort may not be entirely invulnerable to emotion after all, it's that Voldemort would die before he told me about something this personal in the real world. Liability is weakness, etcetera. Riddle will tell me anything, legitimately _anything_  at all, if I ask. That's a huge threat to Voldemort. He might make me choose between them, in order to protect himself. And he has no hair, no nose, fangs, and claws."

"Are you implying that makes a difference, mate?" Ron snorted, teasing. "So, if You-Know-Who was fit, that'd be okay, then?"

" _No,_  Ron, but- What if he-" Harry didn't finish the sentence.

Ron grinned, but it didn't quite reach far enough. "What? Whisks you away to a tower like a princess?"

"Or worse. Locks me away forever. I'm too much of a risk."

He felt something in his chest twist, and yank, and suddenly a very upset, flustered-looking Riddle was standing in front of him, looking almost close to devastated, for a mass murderer. "You know I would never, Harry!"

" _You_  wouldn't, but Voldemort-"

"I _am_  him!" Riddle cried. "Stop talking about us as if we were different people, Harry. He's my past, present, and future -- I've told you this! Everything he does, I do. Everything he wants, I want." Arguably, there were two meanings to that last part that were perfect for one of his usual jokes, but conveniently, Harry's mouth was perfectly alright staying shut for once. Suddenly it felt like anything he could say would doom them, even messing around. "Locking you away would effectively kill you. Only your body would be left, never your mind. I would _never_  lower myself to that level, not even if you weren't a Horcrux."

"Probably Harry's just a bit ruffled that the other you isn't exactly ménage à trois material." Ron's terrible French made Harry choke out a frantic, uncontrolled giggle, and Ron winked. "Isn't that right, Harry?"

But Riddle wasn't having any of it. "I'm him. I'm _him._  I have all his memories."

"You're sane." Harry threw up his hands. "You're nice to me!"

"He can't help it," Riddle protested. "Fear has driven him mad. You know I'm quite seriously on the brink myself? It's not hard to miss. The last Horcrux you had the pleasure of meeting was entirely Tom, and he painted Hogwarts in blood and tried to kill one of your friends. And then he set a giant snake on you, and watched as you lay poisoned and dying on the floor. That's hardly 'charming'."

"You're really wooing me," Harry said.

"Don't sugarcoat me, Harry! I kept up that façade for my years at school, not _now!_ " Riddle gripped his shoulders. "I've been trying to teach you to stay a realist."

"The Dark Lord wouldn't even bat an eye at this, Riddle," Harry said. "He wouldn't get offended at implications. He'd probably be excited I was imagining all sorts of ways to do his job for him."

"He's lost his mind and hasn't spent sixteen years intertwined with your soul. If you removed my memories, I'd be just as excited. But I _know_  you."

"And Voldemort doesn't know me."

"No, he doesn't," he said. "That's what I'm saying. Once he does, he'll change his mind. He'll do anything for you."

"You're comfortable admitting that?"

"I haven't a choice," Riddle said. "But I trust you not to abuse the power."

"But Voldemort doesn't!"

"But you can _show him!_ "

Harry let out a hysterical, frustrated scream. "Why do you have so much faith in me?"

Riddle shook his shoulders, teeth grit against a familiar rage. "I'm joined to your soul," he ground out.

"And _you_  can see that much good in it? I was almost sorted into Slytherin, and you trust me enough to let me know I can get you to do whatever I'd like?"

"Yes, easily. In a heartbeat, now that I know you."

Harry was speechless.

After an eternity, he asked, "Hey, wait a minute, d'you really think I'm better looking than average?" Riddle gave him no answer, and Harry let himself feel a little smug. "You admitted it, not me! I asked you about Hepzibah, and you went ahead and told me I 'paled in comparison'."

" _That's_  what you choose to take from this?"

"The other stuff has to do with my _soul._ Which I can't bloody see. But I can see my face, and most of the people who have ever looked at me were just interested because I'm the Chosen One. Like Romilda." He winced. "That was something."

"I am _nothing_  like-"

"Not like _that._  Romilda was genuinely awful about it. She tried to feed me a love potion!" Harry waved his hands. "It's because I look a lot like you, isn't it, you vain twat?" He laughed. "It doesn't matter, I'm just saying I'm not used to it, is all. And the fact that it's you gives me a free pass to be merciless about it."

Riddle, for a split second, looked something almost like blissful at hearing Harry admit he'd be merciless at anything, the absolute bastard, but immediately smoothed, flowing naturally into a silky smile. "I can help you get used to it, if you'd like."

Harry's cheeks warmed. "Right. Anyway." He cleared his throat. "I guess this isn't really the worst possible scenario. Hermione's right. Even though Voldemort _obviously_  considers himself above seeing the value of human emotions, unlike Riddle, and definitely wants my mouth sewn shut, I can still appeal to his obsession, or at the very least, use his own soul against him. I'm not guaranteed a spot in his tower, and that makes all the difference, right?" He sighed. "So... we can... look on the bright side?"

Riddle ignored this. "Voldemort knows we are one and the same. Can you truly be above the things your perfect mimic is not?"

He grimaced. "I wouldn't like to test it and find out, thanks."

"A fair enough point."

"Shouldn't we- with the Horcruxes? Right now?" Ron started, awkwardly. "You-Know-Who hasn't had any of these revelations. He's still mad at you for taking the piss, right?"

"Shite," Harry said, and then a few times more for good measure. "Riddle, you said there was one in the castle? Where?"

"In the Room of Requirement." At Harry's daunted look, he said, "Don't worry. Both of us will be naturally pulled towards it. And I have the power to float around as I please."

"It's going to talk, isn't it? Try to lie to us like the Diary?"

"As soon as this fragment is aware you're another Horcrux, it'll simply cease trying to kill you and try to protect you instead. You'll be fine. Your friends will be fine."

"Yeah," said Harry, dryly. "This'll be a real walk in the park."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first, to my darling reviewer (on ffn) who caught the history of japan reference in chapter 4. bless you, your review was lovely, and also, that video is the most glorious thing to grace the internet, and i'm so glad to find people who share that love. xx.
> 
> right! the notes.
> 
> erm. uhm. er. do i have an excuse for this? truthfully, no. no, i don't. at all.
> 
> obligatory: "this chapter wasn't rly one i was happy with and one i tried to rewrite like sixteen times" from the author
> 
> a lot of the time readers can power through (bless u) one awkward "i wrote this twenty-five times and it shows" chapter, but im my own worst critic and im still going to cry about things in the notes. i promise some things are still right in the world? kind of? it's only that i have actually no control and tOM CAN'T SHUT HIS MOUTH AND ALSO HE JUST WANTS A HUG DAMMIT. 
> 
> no excuses. im just self-indulgent and want to write about the dark lord voldemort's tru wuv for harry. and kind of (probably mainly) harry getting genuinely flustered at tom's flirting because he knows tom thinks he's ccuuuuu~uuute. forgive me ;a; all i want is reader approval, except i keep pulling shit like this. vaLIDATE MY BAD DECISIONS ;A;. dont but actually do tho.
> 
> tHE ACTION WILL RETURN (o wait did it ever make an appearance) NEXT CHAPTER I SWEAR
> 
> //also i knowww voldemort doesnt do the wandering around in blood shit until !~THaT GOTTDAM ICONIC DH SCENE IT'S THAT GOOD SHIT~!! FAM. FAM. THAT WAS SO EXTRA TOM WHAT THE FUCK. but shhhh. shhh. i had to ok??? i will be unapologetic abt this one smol detail and nothing else
> 
> //when ur extra self-conscious about ur writing bc the sherlock finale like
> 
> //hey bitch do u rly rly rly wanna go hard?????????????/ tHANKS mofftiss. girl run ur own show but dont be on some ho shit.


	8. Jewel

After what felt like years of endless hallway, the Room of Requirement finally ceded to being required only on the most secluded of floors.

The Room of Hidden Things smelt of mould and old parchment. Its corners were sprinkled with cobwebs, dust caught sticky in their grasp. Nothing seemed to have changed from last he saw, but the towers of discarded junk were uniform after a while. He couldn't be sure there wasn't something else lurking.

Ron was so awed by the veritable magical landfill that he smashed into a set of brightly, intricately decorated teacups. The look on Riddle's face as he scrambled to catch them was possibly worth all of the hassle. The room looked beautiful, of course, but it gave Harry such an uneasy feeling. The Half-Blood Prince's book lay here, and apparently, nestled beneath all the carved tables and manuscripts and long-forgotten trinkets, a Horcrux. An absurd part of him worried that it might have been lonely.

Drafts of impossible wind fluttered the pages of ancient books, and blew leaves into their hair. Harry was immediately pinned in fall colours, feeling rather stupid, when on everyone else, they were strangely complementary. It was odd, he had a tendency to forget Riddle was solid flesh, or something close to it, and seeing leaves fluttering into his face, watching him wrinkle his nose and brush them off hurriedly, was like wandering around in a dream. Though he seemed to have far too many of those lately.

In the distance, he heard a whine, like panic gripping him close and dimming his hearing, only this was most certainly real. Whining and hissing, sounding almost petulant, childish, like a baby begging to be picked up by its mother. Not that Riddle had ever had one to pick him up. Another of their many similarities. "Oh," he said. "Well, there it is."

Riddle seemed fascinated in the extreme. "I ache to find it." He rolled up his sleeves, narrowed his eyes, and went running into the abyss. Harry wondered how far an extension of his soul could, in fact, extend.

He blinked. "Voldemort's never really been patient, I guess."

Then, he ran.

He knew instinctively where both of them were. The lonely Horcrux was crying, but Riddle sung. He was always in Harry's company, and even here, when they were apart in distance, they were never apart in mind. Harry was at Riddle's heels in minutes. "Are you going to bloody wait?"

"I can't," he said. "I must- listen, hear how it cries for us- my soul. You've been so alone. It has us now. We're here, you're not alone anymore."

Harry was sort of touched, in an odd way. Voldemort wasn't by any means a caring person, but he was arrogant enough to love his own soul deeply. Eventually, after dodging falling pots, and nearly dying to what looked to be a cannonball, they came to a stop at a simple desk. On it, an equally as simple box. Riddle snatched it up instantly and tore it open, revealing- "You put your soul in Ravenclaw's diadem? Really?"

"There, there," came Riddle's crooning, patting the ancient treasure's glittering jewels and pristinely-polished metal.

"It's a fucking tiara," Harry got out, after a while of spluttering.

"A very valuable one," Riddle confirmed. "One that holds my soul."

Harry asked, slyly, "Did you wear it?"

"I'm certain I'd be greatly suited to it, but no."

"Pity."

"You mock us, and yet you are as strongly connected," Riddle said, off-hand. He didn't really seem to be paying much attention to anything other than the sparkling diadem cradled in his palms.

"It makes a bit of sense, if you think about it. You always have your hair perfectly styled, and Voldemort doesn't have a single stain on his robes, not even blood. You are utterly obsessed with your appearance, aren't you? Of course you chose a _tiara._  You girl."

"Now there's an interesting thought," Riddle said. "You won't get any response from me. It is a gem among all creation. And if I felt the need to wear it, my strength would not be diminished in any way by something deemed effeminate, arbitrary and contrived perceptions that they are. It is a glorious sight to behold, and I would be extraordinary with it-"

"You're right, you'd probably be very royal in it, enough to soothe your weird need to be king of all things. You're still admitting you'd wear a tiara, though."

Riddle's mouth was curling up in an amused smile. "And in it, I would still be king of all things."

"Right," said Harry. "It's gone a bit quiet now. Is it going to refrain from killing me, unlike the last one?"

"Ask it yourself."

Harry looked at it. Awkwardly, he said, "Don't kill me. I've come to help you. Well, _you've_  come to help you, too, but here I am."

It seemed to purr in contentment. Riddle ran a long finger along its rim, looking about as pleased. "It cannot talk to you in anything but your dreams. It does, however, sway the emotions of those in its presence."

"I can't say I'm surprised. You already do that. Uh, all of you."

"Treat it well, then," he replied. "A word of advice. I doubt calling it a tiara will particularly endear you to it."

"I've endeared you to me. Sort of."

"I've sixteen years of patience built within me. It has been solely in its own company all these decades, and you are quite... singularly trying."

"Thanks," Harry said. "I'm taking that as a compliment."

"Be that as it may," Riddle continued, ignoring him, "you are as much our soul as anything. We do so cherish you."

"Only because I'm your soul, then," Harry felt the need to clarify.

"And because nobody tests my patience or my mercy like you do. You are wondrously insolent. I find the challenge invigorating."

"Okay," Harry said. "Thanks again. I think."

Riddle flashed him a charming smile, straight out of the pensieve memories, the precise sort that swayed Slughorn. "You're most welcome."

"Probably Lord Voldemort isn't as invigorated."

"Oh, he is," Riddle assured. "Never doubt it for a second. Why else would the Prophecy have chosen you? Why else would I devote my attention to you? No-one short of incredible can capture it."

"You wanted to kill me up until a few weeks ago."

"There's a fine line between love and hate, isn't there?"

"So now you suddenly love me?"

"I wouldn't call it sudden." Riddle stopped at that, and seemed to realise just what he had said. He hummed. "I think we've already had the 'love' discussion. I'm afraid I can't give you that. But you must be precious to me, after a fashion, mustn't you? You are my soul and my soul's keeper. My partner, my-" Riddle's eyes darkened. "We are intertwined. You are-"

"Not yours to possess, just to make that clear."

"No. What a waste that would be, to make you into a puppet. You are my other half, the Lord Voldemort's other half. Not to hone your talent would be a travesty."

"You mean _your_  talent."

"No," he snapped. "Yours. Our wands are brothers. Our magic forms two perfect halves. But they are separate, unique, not identical. You could say the whole we form is not symmetrical." There was a zealous light in his eyes again, the one he got when power floated into his grasp. "But we are ever stronger for it. You will see. When I am Returned, we will perform magic together, as allies, not as enemies, and you will see. With our powers together with and not against, we can do anything." The zeal was quick to fade. "I only wish I could convey this to my counterpart adequately."

Harry was sceptical. Was there nothing two portions of the same soul could not concisely communicate? "He doesn't know?"

"He knows you will make him stronger. He does not know you _complete_  him." Riddle languished over the words, dripping like honey. "He does not understand how our _partnership_ -" this, he said almost seductively, "-is in all ways greater than our enmity. He does not see that we should seek to let our magic combine when needed, that we should unite our magical knowledge, and learn what limitless possibilities our alliance offers. He must know. Then, we can Return, with our patchwork soul. And I will find my mind." Riddle breathed. "We must find the other Horcruxes, and treat them with the utmost care."

"I-" Harry started, feeling a little hot, despite the cool breeze. "Voldemort wants to work with me. Sounds a bit like something I'd come up with completely off it on Liquid Luck."

Riddle rested a hand on his shoulder. "Talk with your friends. Rest. Then we can ask Dumbledore about this Horcrux he has managed to catch sight of."

* * *

Hermione and Ron caught up to them fifteen minutes later, panting and sweating and covered in dust. "Sorry," Harry said. "He's a bit fast."

Hermione exhaled an exhausted breath. "Did you find it?"

"Yeah." Harry grinned excitedly, and waved her over. "Come take a look. You're gonna have loads to say about this once you see it."

Hermione stepped forward hesitantly. When Riddle raised his hands to present his new prize, she looked like she'd picked salt when she meant to pick sugar, face curling up in a grimace. "Merlin, did you have to?"

"Naturally, I did."

Harry reached out a hand and wiggled his fingers under Riddle's nose. He nodded, and Harry gently plucked the Horcrux from his grip. Immediately, he felt as if he'd snuggled into a particularly lovely blanket, a comforting embrace from an old friend. For all Harry's teasing, apparently this version of Voldemort was happy with him. Harry promptly set it on his head and spun around. "How do I look?"

The rich colour of Riddle's eyes seemed to darken, half-lidded and appraising. "Positively enchanting."

Harry fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, then placed the diadem into Riddle's ever-present impeccable hair, mussing it slightly. "Not so bad yourself."

This earnt him a predatory smile. "Thank you, Harry."

"Right, so. Right." Harry moved along quickly. "That's one down. Three more to grab."

"You know we're going to have to explain this to Dumbledore, right?" Ron frowned. "He'll want to know why we haven't hexed it to the moon and back by now."

"It's a lovely piece of jewelry and an ancient artefact and we all look good in it?" Harry offered, wincing. "I'm shite at lying to him. I've tried, but I always have this creeping feeling that he knows anyway. He's insanely powerful, and my Occlumency clouds my mind about as much as a window."

Hermione looked puzzled. "Why not just tell him the truth?"

"'Why, Headmaster, this is Tom, you remember him, don't you? There are quite a few of him, and this one happens to not want to kill me. I promise!' _He'll_  kill me instead. And I'll get a very long lecture on putting the castle at risk by allowing Voldemort to infiltrate my mind, and me trying to explain, 'But he cares about protecting people now! They just have to be his soul first,' won't go over well as an excuse."

Riddle sighed, sat cross-legged on the once-final resting place of a piece of his own being, and rested his chin in his hands. "Must I throw myself in front of a blade for you to prove it? The old man hates me, and I can tell you the feeling is most definitely mutual. Not even knowing I've given you the locations of my own Horcruxes will convince him."

"It might?"

"And how could you show him? He'll go after them as soon as he possibly can, and I'm already down by two. Two others can take care of themselves, and the rest are left waiting for his eager hands."

That image alone was unsettling enough. Never before had he dreaded Dumbledore taking the upper hand. "We've got one."

"I'd rather not lose two more. I can't guarantee three of seven is enough to restore my mind to its former glory."

"'Glory,'" Harry repeated, dryly.

"Or to restore my youthful face," Riddle said, sounding genuinely distressed. "I've grown quite fond of it these past sixteen years."

He snorted. "You really are an arrogant prick."

"My looks have helped me immensely in this life. I don't imagine my current corporeal form has an easy time charming people into doing anything."

"He just scares them instead."

Riddle huffed. "Hardly a method that should be used solely by itself. Charm gains followers like Bellatrix, not Lucius."

"Bellatrix still wants to get in your robes, even if you hiss at her. Actually, she probably enjoys it."

"I'd prefer her swooning to Lucius' snivelling. She's at least loyal."

"You just want your ridiculously huge ego validated."

Riddle fought a war with his mouth, which was trying desperately to come into a grin. To everyone's surprise, he lost, and began to laugh, high and light. It matched Voldemort's precisely, but the expression of happiness made it as different as anything. It should've been a terrifying contrast, but Harry felt oddly content in seeing it. It proved the point he wanted so desperately for Dumbledore to understand -- that Tom Riddle, no matter how small the part of him, was capable of change. Even if his joy still came at others' expense. "Ah, yes, 'validating my ridiculously huge ego'. A favourite of my pastimes. And to think you've accused me of poor wording!" He dissolved into more laughter, which made Harry scowl half-heartedly. He should've been offended, but he couldn't seem to bring himself even close to it.

"Don't pin acting like a Third Year on my soul," Harry informed him. "You're doing that all yourself."

"I never would have laughed at something so brainless before, so I think I shall pin it on you. My appearance doesn't reflect my true age, so it really can only be your fault."

"How old _are_  you, anyway?"

Riddle raised an arched eyebrow. "It depends. This body seems to put me in my prime, and really, I can hardly blame myself for such a choice, however subconscious. It's anywhere from sixteen, as long as I have assumed this form, to twenty. However, when I left my original body, I was fifty-three. Sixty-seven when I regained a physical form. And sixty-nine presently. But am I truly any of these ages? Before my resurrection, I was hardly living, and yet..."

"Well, then Snake-Face should be glad. He gets to escape wrinkles and grey hair."

"I think I would've aged quite well," Riddle said, haughty. "Very well, in fact. These physical attributes would simply display the extent of my many experiences and vast repertoire of knowledge."

Harry smirked. "Your head is so big I'm actually shocked the tiara fits."

A pleased sigh. "Your wording is still terrible. Trust a Gryffindor to walk himself straight into a trap."

"Trust a Slytherin to set one."

"You do give as good as you get, Harry. I'd like to say that was _my_  influence, but your smart remarks are a brand of their own."

Harry stopped a moment. "Voldemort wants to convince me I don't have a brand of my own in the first place. What makes you different?"

"I have decided to take in what makes me stronger, not destroy it. You can attribute that to my sanity."

"Relative sanity."

"As you say."

Harry only wished Voldemort would come to the conclusion himself. Perhaps, if he told the diadem, it could relay a message... it was preposterous, might even get him killed, but also one of his last hopes. When had he not relied on all his plans being thwarted anyway?

He'd ask Riddle. _His_  Riddle. Tom. Not that Harry thought he'd be able to get away with calling him that anywhere but in his own mind, for his own purposes, so he might not get hopelessly lost trying to figure out which Riddle he was _really_  talking about.

But first, he needed something to drink. His mouth was so dry he felt as if he were about to swallow his own tongue. "Can we get out of here? I'm thirsty."

Hermione swept the room a few times, then said, "Accio flask." A few hundred began to pool at her feet, a mottled calico of colours. Some were painted garish neons, and others were dull and rusted. All of them looked like they hadn't seen the light of day in an eternity. "Right. Big selection."

"They're probably three hundred years old," Harry protested.

"Scourgify," Hermione said, exasperated. "Really, Harry. We have magic freely at our disposal, and you're worried about a few flasks?"

"A few hundred. That could've been anywhere before you called for them. I could get poisoned and die."

She crossed her arms. "They're clean now."

Harry picked up a simple silver cup and eyed it sceptically. "If I die, I want you to bury me with a note that says, 'I told you so.' And I want this melted and remade into... into a fork." Ron snorted. "Or a knife," he added, sourly.

"You'll be fine."

"Aguamenti." Everything looked normal. But that's what the person who obviously cursed this would have wanted him to think.

"Here, hand it to me," said Riddle -- Tom -- Voldemort -- whoever. "I have no true physical form. Any supposed curse wasn't intended for me." Harry gladly passed it over. Tom took a sip, stared with narrow eyes at the glistening water, so long Harry wondered if he were admiring his own reflection -- Harry wouldn't put it past him -- and then nodded. "It's perfectly fine for human consumption."

Harry sighed with relief and gulped the whole thing down in a second. "Worth dying for."

Tom stared. "You'll give yourself indigestion."

Water dribbled down Harry's lips, and he shrugged. Tom followed the motion closely. "I've got the manners of a prince compared to Ron."

"Oh, thanks."

* * *

They returned to the dorms with Harry hidden safely under the Cloak of Invisibility, which he'd brought more out of comfort than acknowledging its possible use. He felt safe, breathing in musty, poorly-filtered air, hair getting ruffled and charged with static, silk tickling his nose. Dumbledore would probably see through it, but they could at least safeguard against any stray students roaming the halls. Explaining the sudden appearance of Ravenclaw's diadem in any believable way was near impossible.

Harry now sat on his bed with a Horcrux cradled in his hands, staring down and wondering if it was, indeed, real.

It purred.

"Can you talk outside of dreams? I don't want to have to sleep to hear you." He received only a hiss. "Okay, I'm taking that as a no. I want to see who you're more like, Riddle or Voldemort." This provoked a louder, angrier hiss. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, all of you are insistent you're the same. Maybe in general, but you did get less patient with age. And less calm." He glared. "Not that you're calm in the first place, you're like a great big walking set of bloody stage directions. You're theatrical, and you moan more than Moaning Myrtle."

The diadem started in on another hiss to rival even the best of Crookshanks', but then cut out half-way through, and settled back into contented purring.

"You're as off your rocker as all the other Toms," Harry told it. Voldemort always had him at the end of his wits, or forgetting he had any to begin with. "You are theatrical, but you're not, as well? How does that make any sense? Then again, you are a walking contradiction. 'Pureblood superiority!' says the half-blood, because he's a sodding lunatic." The diadem grew hotter in his hands, until it was almost scalding, and Harry promptly shut up. "Don't bite me. I'm sorry. If I make you miserable, you'll just make me feel even worse."

He was overwhelmed with a feeling of smug satisfaction from the diadem, which he flicked gently with a nail. "That wasn't even a compliment." But this Riddle seemed to think it was. Of course he did. Carefully, Harry rearranged himself so that he could lie comfortably on his stomach, wrapped in warm blankets, eye to eye with the diadem once he'd set it on his pillow. "I want to figure you out," Harry said. "But I can't really do much. I can hold you, but nothing else, really. I guess I could use my other senses, but I don't want to try to taste you, or smell you. I can already hear you a bit." He stroked the tip of his pointer finger across the glittering gems and over ancient metal. It was pleasantly warm, now, like a small little heating charm, and back to purring rhythmically. Tom was supposed to be a snake more than a cat, but Harry honestly didn't know how snakes would express happiness without outright telling someone.

And of course, only he and Tom could ever hear them.

He waited awhile like that, in the dark. And then his eyes were growing lidded, snuggled into the covers, next to something, though not breathing, perfectly alive. "I think I'm gonna fall 'sleep now," he whispered, and let himself drift.

* * *

He blinked awake in what he instantly recognised as Riddle Manor's foyer. For a moment, terror coursed through him, enough to make his hands shake, force the tips of his fingers to go numb. But then his eyes caught on Riddle, sitting against the front door, reading a book under the light of his wand, gleaming an almost pure white in equally pale hands. As usual, his left eye was red, but his right, its natural stormy grey. Harry knew at once this was the diadem.

"Hello," he said.

"I'm _not_  a 'great big walking set of bloody stage directions'," the diadem returned in greeting.

It wasn't the welcome he expected, but he never truly seemed to be able to fully expect anything Voldemort did, let alone how he treated guests in his mind. He wasn't in agony, and that was an improvement to most other times. "Well, you kind of are."

Riddle huffed petulantly. "I most certainly am not."

If he wanted to argue all night, Harry could humour him. But the knowledge of the other Horcruxes, alone and vulnerable, hung over him like the sword of Damocles. "Then what did you get so pleased for when I said you were?" _Please just answer and be done with it._

"Oh, no," said Riddle. "It wasn't _that_  comment that pleased me. No, you said I moaned more than Moaning Myrtle." Riddle's eyes ran up and down Harry's body, where he sat, legs curled, on the floor. Smooth, silky, Riddle offered, "Is that what you and my other soul shard do all day? Moan? You _did_  seem quite fond of one another."

Harry went a vibrant pink.

Riddle laughed. "And so _re_ _sponsive,_  too."

This was a new sort of approach, Harry thought, staring down at his toes, entirely unable to meet Riddle's eyes for more than a split second. "I blame this on you being trapped in endless adolescence. And that you're a smartarse, highly sought-after, pretty tiara. And that you hate me and want to see me suffer."

"Ah, yes, I did get the impression I wanted to do terrible things to you," Riddle said. "Relax. I'm simply teasing you. I know who you are, I know why your body's other passenger is sending you after us. I preserve the memory of Tom Marvolo Riddle in 1945. A _pleasure_  to meet you, at last, Harry Potter. I've heard so much about you."

"You... too..." Harry said, trying to soothe the fire in his cheeks.

"As it happens, I heard your request earlier. Unfortunately, my connection with Lord Voldemort is tenuous at best. Attempting to communicate would likely end in tears -- yours. We can share feelings, images, basic suggestions, that sort of thing. But only if I initiate. He's entirely oblivious to my well-being. Should I die, he would feel nothing." Riddle sighed, resigned, and shrugged lightly. "So, no, we can't carry out any meaningful conversation." He frowned, plush lips turning down into a mock-solemn pout. "I do hope this hasn't put you off me. I suppose I could try to send him something, but your connection is far more powerful."

"Are you- the polite one?"

Riddle laughed. "Old habits die hard. This small sliver of my soul was embedded here when it was still necessary that I appear unnoticeable. So to speak. I'm meant to charm."

"None of the others I've met have even tried. Except the Diary, but he tried to kill me as soon as I stopped being useful."

"Why, I could never waste such a pretty face. You'd at least have to have your portrait painted first."

"Ha. Ha. Anyway, no, this hasn't 'put me off' you. I'm still curious. Your body looks pretty young, but I got the impression you've been in the Room of Hidden Things a while. How old are you? Are you more like Voldemort or Tom?"

"I took a long break, from the looks of you. I am the Horcrux directly before you, Harry. You could say we're quite close. But I was still in my thirties when I was created. Not yet out of my prime."

"You did age well, didn't you? Looking something like a decade younger in your thirties? You don't even have a laugh line on y-"

"Yes, I'm sure you can imagine I haven't had reason to laugh all that much, Harry. But I thank you for the compliment. I find it warms my heart."

"Oh, you have one?"

Riddle smiled pleasantly. "If anyone could warm it, you'd be the first I'd pick."

"Oh, Merlin, is _that_ how you got into Hepzibah's knickers?"

"I was far less forward with her," said Riddle. "Not proper in those times, to say such things to a lady."

"Are you saying you're trying to get into my pants _more_  than you did Hepzibah's? Well, okay, there's only so much you could stomach with her, I guess. But look, I'm already a Horcrux, so there's no point."

"I don't want anything from you." Riddle watched him with lidded eyes. "Mm. Even just looking at you is enough. You flush so prettily, not like the others. And you don't dissolve into some whimpering mess." He smirked. "Not within the first few seconds of talking to me, I should clarify. Given a little time, I'm sure I could have you whimpering. _That's_  the sort I enjoy."

"You're thirty-something! You're actually a giant snake-man hybrid. You hate me! If anything got you hot and bothered, it'd probably be hearing me whimper in _pain._  Wait, no, I'll never be able to face Voldemort again, I retract all of that, and I'm going to lock it away in a Pensieve-"

Riddle shook his head. "He doesn't feel that way about you anymore. None of us feel that way. I want to make you scream, Harry, but not like that."

"Fuck, you're the _flirty one._  Tom's the sarcastic one. The Diary was the friendly one. And Voldemort is the angry one. Why'd I have to get the flirty one on my first go?"

"I can't help it," Riddle said. "Your reactions are just... irresistible."

Harry desperately tried to school his face into something more presentable. "Right. While you're at that, then, can we talk about the more important things? Like keeping you from Dumbledore, making sure you don't die, and I'll figure you'll want to talk to the other Tom, the Horcrux part of me."

"I think you'll find I can blend into the shadows well enough. Don't go around wearing me on your head, don't act suspicious, and Dumbledore won't have reason to go sniffing around his golden child. As for killing me, well... you'd have a hard time succeeding there." Riddle began to count on his fingers. "Don't stab me with another Basilisk fang or anything covered in its venom, don't burn me in cursed fire, and, no, that's about it. In regards to the shard of my soul inside you, I can talk to him if you summon him within a dream. But the limited communication we have outside your mindscape is enough to get by. Only an extremely pressing matter would warrant calling for him. Unless you truly wanted us to talk, I suppose."

He noted there were discomfitingly little ways to end a Horcrux's existence. Did that resilience also apply to him? Or were intentional Horcruxes the only recipients? "How am I supposed to carry you around?"

"Your robes are adequate. Besides, I don't imagine you'll be staying at the school long, will you? I'm the only Horcrux to reside here, and you've found me already."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Dumbledore knows where one is. He's going to take me there."

"Your friends can guard me while you're away. But don't take that as a free-for-all. I should like to stay with you as long as it's possible. And only you."

"Why me?"

Riddle's face made it clear this question was supposed to have an extremely obvious answer. "You've done a fantastic job taking care of one piece of my soul already. You've the practice to ensure my safety, like no-one else. Not even my physical body. He went to the trouble of hiding all of us, and yet here you are, under Hogwart's nose, with a part of Voldemort inside you. Two, now."

"You're not inside me."

Riddle hummed. "Do you want me to be?"

"Okay, I think I'd like to wake up now-"

He chuckled. "Don't let me scare you off, my- no, pet doesn't appeal. All the rest seem too overused. My..."

"Cuddle Muffin," Harry finished, dryly.

Riddle immediately scowled. "I'd prefer the cursed fire."

_You suggested it!_  Even in eternal stasis, Voldemort was still intent on changing his mind every few seconds. The Forever-Hypocrite. "Baby?"

"Certainly not."

Harry began chewing his lip to keep from bursting into sobbing laughter. The past weeks were a blur; this wouldn't even mark the first time he'd decided to mess with the Dark Lord. Not even the second time, really. Which was a title few could claim. Official Annoyance to Voldemort. He deserved at least a medal, if not a lifetime of therapy and an entire castle-full of firewhiskey. "Honey Bunny? Pookie? Snookums? Pudding? Sugarplum?"

"No to all."

Harry held his chin in his hands, nodding his head every so often. Watching anyone else attempt theatrics seemed to sour Riddle's mood completely. Harry was enthralled. "Pumpkin?" he asked, eventually. "Very complicated business, this. I'm stumped."

"Cherished." Riddle seemed to settle considerably. Something appropriate and dignified enough for his highly-respected name, and one that wouldn't make him beg for death. But Harry was still ticking off his mental list. "I do, in fact, cherish you."

"Cherry Pie? Sweetiecakes?"

"I can't kick you out," Riddle said, patiently. "Implying I'd lower myself to calling you 'snookums' isn't going to help you disappear any faster. Only you can do that."

"Ah, but didn't you just technically call me snookums?"

"Maybe I do want to kill you after all." His eye, bleeding red, was twitching. His hands were smoothly directed into his robes, likely so he could clench them into fists without making a show of himself. " _Darling._ "

Harry wanted to cry. "See, at least then things would _make sense._ "

"Harry." Riddle came to sit by him, folding neatly into crosslegs and tucking his book into his pocket. "Life will never make sense. We are all desperate to find order in this disordered universe. But the only order we have must first be created by our own hands. My cherishing you _does_  make sense, since you are so integral to my continued existence. But you are also unique." Riddle rested a hand on his shoulder, spindly fingers falling against his clavicle and drumming against his skin. "If the Prophecy had chosen the Longbottom boy, I may have simply let myself die instead, you know."

"I'm not any more or less able to do what Neville can." Harry shook his head, messy fringe falling into his eyes, which Riddle swiftly brushed away. "For all we know, he'd be a better Boy Who Lived than I ever could be."

Riddle looked disgusted at the mere implication. "He hasn't a quarter of your talent."

"He's four quarters more resourceful."

"And more pathetic. He is weak."

"And I'm not?"

"No," said Riddle. "You are not. And I'm willing to debate you on this for as long as you please, so don't even hope to out-wait me."

"You only say that because I'm a part of you, or the other way around, or whatever this is." He gestured between them. "Besides, I could be a genius, and I'd still fuck up around Voldemort. This connection basically removes my self-control."

"What about his self-control?"

"What little exists? He doesn't need it. A couple well-timed curses and I'm dead meat."

"But it _does_  erode it?"

"Yeah. Thinking about it, it's probably why you've been flirting so outrageously. For starters."

"There you have it," said Riddle. "Though, I'd like to clarify I'd be 'flirting outrageously' regardless of the state of my self-control."

"Are you saying I should take advantage of that?"

"Of course." Riddle scoffed. "We expect no less from you."

"Right," Harry said. "I'll have a chance to try it soon, anyway. Next time I fall asleep, I think I'm going to run into him. It's been too long already."

"Ah." A calm stare. "Well, you'd better get to the Horcrux Dumbledore's found as soon as possible, hadn't you?"

"Oh, shit," he swore. The realisation hit him like a tonne of bricks, raising his heart into his throat, pulse beating wildly, stomach flipping as if he were tumbling down a flight of stairs. He'd failed to even consider that Voldemort would be _going after his own soul._  It was the sort of oversight that may not ever lead to his own death, but could easily lead to the deaths of others. The first time he'd tripped up like this was one too many. "What if he's there first?"

The smile on Riddle's face was haunting. Beautifully unaffected. Not a hair on his head out of place. It was the dead-eyed look Harry had seen in Slughorn's memory, and he found himself shuddering. "You'll have to find that out yourself, won't you? Wait and see, Harry. I have a feeling we'll be meeting in person again soon either way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Sixty-nine. What is maturity? evidENTlY not sOMETHING I'M AWARE OF
> 
> The actual Horcrux hunt makes an appearance!!! Miraculous!!!!!! And yet I STILL dissolve into philosophical rambling. Seriously, take overanalysis away from me, STAT ;A;!!! bEFORE I WRITE SOMETHING WORSE THAN DICK JOKES
> 
> there is nothing worse oh god
> 
> this is what happens when the premise of your fic includes "voldemort accidentally gets harry's sense of humour because sOUL OSMOSIS" wtf the fuck
> 
> me, rereading chaps in thsi fic: voldemort's flirting turns harry into the fiendfyre instead dude. how many times has he blushed his face off again lmoa??


	9. Lifeblood

He knew he couldn't escape Dumbledore forever. He didn't want to. The man deserved an explanation, or twenty. At least some sort of half-baked reason for why Harry would willingly let Voldemort trail him around in the castle.

But Harry had no explanation. He wanted to sink into the ground and sleep, but he knew he'd be facing an infuriated Dark Lord the moment his eyes closed. And to wander around awake, he risked the wrath of the headmaster instead. Harry wasn't honestly sure he knew which was worse.

He couldn't withhold information to save his life, and he couldn't seem to manage a dream any better. But both were inevitable, and he was going to have to wing it, no matter how much he kicked and screamed. Part of him wanted to follow Hermione's advice and confess everything, but Dumbledore could very well set him on fire for it and be within his rights. _"You speak to three separate Voldemorts, Harry, is that right?"_  It was right. _"I've arrived at the most surprising conclusion that I should've let Voldemort murder you as you were searching for the Philosopher's Stone. Time to die, Harry! You're long overdue, it seems."_

Or something like that.

"I'm going to die," he told the diadem, seriously. It hissed. "I mean it, Riddle. I'm done for."

But if it turned out his destiny was death, then he wanted to meet it in his own sweet time. He should choose when to speak to Dumbledore himself.

It was completely his own choice if that meant he had to visit the headmaster's office as soon as possible. He'd decided. He thought it was prudent. All by himself.

* * *

Standing in front of the statue that guarded Dumbledore's office was more threatening than being face-to-face with Voldemort. The empty look in the phoenix's stone-carved eyes still felt more piercing than something so lifeless should, more like he was clingfilm than an actual human being. Transparent.

"Sherbet lemon," he told the phoenix, with mock-confidence. Almost hesitantly, it opened the passageway to the winding staircase that led up to Dumbledore's office.

As he climbed, his tie seemed to grow more and more intent on strangling him. He loosened it, but that didn't help, so he figured he was just losing his grip on reality again. His own unpleasant paranoia was kind of a settled fact now, something he just inherently accepted came with Tom as a package deal. He would always be aware of his surroundings in a way few could be. He wasn't sure that trait was sewn into Tom's DNA, or if living and breathing arguably one of the most vicious wars known to mankind had grown and cemented it. Either way, it planned to stay, and Harry couldn't seem to throw it off.

He was sure Dumbledore already knew he was here, but he knocked against the wall politely anyway, and cleared his throat. A few portraits stirred from sleep and glared out at him from beneath half-closed eyes. He smiled apologetically. "Um, hello."

"Ah, Harry, I've been expecting you." Dumbledore's voice echoed around the room, and from what Harry could hear, he was likely sitting at his desk, writing down the solution to magic's most complicated problems, or contemplating the nature of existence, or whatever it was that the headmaster chose to do in his free time. Harry was surprised suddenly to realise he really had no clue. "Come in."

"You've been expecting me, sir?"

"Yes, I imagine you've come about the memories I showed you, and the Horcruxes. I must say I'm impressed you've found one already."

The licquorice Harry was setting in on jumped and bit viciously into his finger. He didn't even blink, even when it tried to start gnawing. Eventually, his complete lack of reaction seemed to disappoint the poor thing, and it slunk off. "I'm- what? Sorry, _what?_ "

"I know my possible reaction to the news has been worrying you, Harry, but I understand completely. Students frequently say I have eyes on the back of my head, and while I assure you this is not the case, I do take a good deal of time to observe. And I've been seeing a strangely familiar boy following you, Harry. One who is most decidedly out of place. Or shall I say, out of time."

Harry opened his mouth to make some sort of excuse, and then noticed he had none to give. "I swear, sir, I _swear_  on my life, this version's turned around completely, he _told_  me where it was, even!"

"It's alright. I, too, found myself drawn to a charismatic young dark lord when I was a youth. But I found it exceedingly easy to lose track of my real priorities around him. He convinced me everything he believed in was for the betterment of magical kind. Does that sound familiar?"

"He's not doing that. Voldemort is still being himself, actually. And the Horcrux isn't even pretending he's not still a complete ar-" Harry bit his lip. "Villain. He told me, though, sir. He told me what I really am."

Dumbledore sighed, holding his chin in his hands. "I had suspected. I know these past years have been difficult for you. This, I'm sure, is not the news you would have hoped for. Of course, when we come down to the essence of things, your differences are what truly matter, but it will be hard to come to terms with nonetheless." He looked down at Harry from under sparkling lenses, glinting off the light. Fawkes squawked mournfully in the ensuing brief silence. "That's only part of the reason I found myself unwilling to reveal the truth to you. If you knew, so would he, you understand. And if you thought he was dangerous when he was threatened by your refusal to die, Harry, being threatened with something he himself must choose not to kill is far worse."

"Yeah, I'm starting to see that."

"I can't say I'm pleased with this turn of events. But I can say it appears the Tom Riddle that resides within you does not appear to want to return to his old habits, and that itself is change drastic enough that I must step back and reconsider. I'm reluctant to accept your actions. This is a great risk. Only you keep his power in check, Harry, you are all that bars him from reattempting what happened in your Second Year. It is up to you to see that things remain this way, and I'm trusting you not to lose sight of yourself as I did."

Harry nodded, a wordless promise. Eventually, "You were really friends with a dark lord?"

Dumbledore's smile was fond, nostalgic, and endlessly sad. Seemed that response was common among friends of those with dark magic. "He was my dearest friend, in fact. I felt he understood me like no other, and I, him, in turn. I was very much mistaken."

"Didn't he like you?"

"Yes, of course, I could tell that much. But it was also convenient that I liked him. It was easier to pretend the things he said were reasonable when he was so personable."

"What'd he want to do?"

"Enslave Muggles."

"Oh, wow. Uh. Step up from Voldemort, though, right? At least they'd be alive."

Dumbledore laughed at this off-colour joke. "Yes, who says there isn't a silver lining to every cloud after all?"

"Did you ever repair your friendship?"

"Not particularly. Speaking to him only seems to bring pain, never healing. But I often wonder if, in another world, we could have remained friends. If he could have set aside his more violent aspirations for those of a peaceful glory. Perhaps even a political glory. He could charm anyone if he tried."

"He didn't put you above that?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "In some ways, he did. We had a deep respect for each other, and he wanted desperately for me to join his cause for the rest of time, but his dreams were too far-reaching and seductive to let go of. I loved him for his very soul, but looking back on it, I assume he loved me mainly for my power."

" _Love_ love?" Harry asked, like an idiot. Why was that the first thing he seemed to ask every time he was confronted with a dark lord? What the hell had him fixated on their perceived heartlessness?

"On my part," Dumbledore said, amused at Harry's stupid gawking. "I suppose I will never be sure whether those feelings were returned."

"You should go talk to him," Harry offered. "I'm not saying you can just walk in there, like, 'Oh, everything's forgiven, it's okay you wanted to rip people's freedom away, you're pretty and we should get married instead.'" This got him an extremely sceptical raised eyebrow. "But, I mean. Maybe a, 'Hey, remember how we could change the world together? Fancy helping save us all from these new Death Eaters? If you want, you can teach at Hogwarts. Hopefully Defence Against the Dark Arts, because nobody else will bloody do it.' Or something like that."

Dumbledore smiled gently. "Is that what you want to say to Voldemort, Harry?"

"Yeah. He won't listen to it, he thinks I'm about as smart as Neville's toad and no more useful. But if you were best friends with this bloke -- and you sound full-on star-crossed -- he couldn't just forget you. He'd value your opinion because, if nothing else, you can basically do anything you'd like with magic, and you oversee an entire school of careless children and make sure we don't all get ourselves killed? That's a tough job."

"I doubt I could find an audience with him."

Harry shot him pleading doe eyes. "But you could try, sir?"

"Yes. I could try." Dumbledore set a hand on his shoulder. "Be safe. In many ways, Voldemort is an even more dangerous enemy. He cannot even find an advantage in love to exploit. He sways others with fear and suffering. You must be cautious when dealing with a person of that calibre. There seems to be something fundamentally human missing from them, Harry. Something none of us can do without."

* * *

Dumbledore had dismissed him with the promise of the Horcrux's location at a later date. Part of Harry hoped he was going to see his old friend, and maybe build a bridge between the two again. Another part suspected Dumbledore wanted to keep a very close eye on him before bestowing that kind of sensitive information.

In classes, all he could do was stare at the wall, get whacked over the head with various books by Snape, and try his best not to get called on and reveal just how little that went in his ear wasn't making it out again. Hermione and Ron gave him concerned looks, but if not even a few tonnes worth of Calming Drought could blank Harry's mind right now, he was beyond help. Maybe not even a few tonnes of alcohol.

Everything Dumbledore had told him was reverberating around his mind like a ping pong ball, rattling his skull. His own thoughts were giving him a headache, one he couldn't casually sleep off, because the next time he closed his eyes, he knew he'd wake up back in that room in Riddle Manor, feeling Voldemort's dripping, cloying, inky soul. How was it that his dreams were worse than his nightmares?

Just his luck, of course.

Even his teachers were giving him strange glances, to the point where Harry was considering if Snape was hoping he'd get his mind in order if it got smacked around enough. They weren't even harsh. Like getting hit on the head with a newspaper, and not even a rolled one. Snape actually looked worried, which in itself was worrying. And he kept asking Harry questions in class, as if that might get him to pay attention all of a sudden.

But Harry could barely keep still. He knew that, come night, his exhaustion would overwhelm him, and he'd eventually sink into sleep. If anything, he thought Voldemort might even try using the Link to sedate him. Harry could feel his eager eyes on the back of his neck constantly, despite Voldemort being miles and miles away. Sometimes he thought he heard whispers. It made his hairs stand on end, sweat-slick hair plastered to his forehead, jumping at so much as a wand waved near his general vicinity.

"You're going to drive yourself mad at this rate," Ron told him, as Harry almost tripped down the stairs for a tenth time.

"Oh, yeah, definitely." They were due back at the dorms any minute, and it felt somewhat like walking to his own doom.

"He's not going to kill you," Ron promised, gripping his shoulder. "And, being You-Know-Who and everything, I think he's probably figured he's basically a walking Veritaserum to you. Maybe he'll even let it slide."

"That's not going to happen," Harry said. "I really hit a nerve."

"Doesn't anything make him relax?"

"Tea. Accidentally being complimented. Being better than me at things."

Ron snorted. "Make him a cuppa, tell him he looks pretty, and fall down the stairs proper this time."

"Thanks, Ron, I'll keep that in mind."

Even if he couldn't navigate the castle blindfolded, he'd know they were on a steady approach for Gryffindor's common room from the horrible sound of the Fat Lady's godawful singing. No matter how many times anyone begged her to stop, she just kept on going. She either wouldn't or couldn't see sense. Her singing was, to everyone's constant reminder, amazing, and any single person who couldn't see the truth in that had no appreciation for the arts. Harry was kind of grateful for it now, though, for the very first time in his entire life. It might keep him awake.

Ron winced. "What kind of song is that? It's just noise at this point."

"I have my fingers crossed she'll keep going. I don't want to fall asleep right now, to be honest."

"Merlin, I'd prefer You-Know-Who to her wailing. But if it's music in your ears, good on you. I'd still take a dark lord."

"Voldemort can probably sing for real," Harry offered. The image was stuck in his head now, Tom as a choirboy, or something similar to show off his talent. "He made sure there was nothing he couldn't do. Maybe I should ask him."

"You have to do it, now, Harry. I've got to know if he can sing or not." Ron met his eyes seriously. "I'll die if I don't find out."

"Wow, alright. I'll ask Voldemort to sing me a lullaby. Maybe if I fall asleep twice I'll get out of his bloody deathtrap house."

The worst part, Harry was now sorely tempted.

* * *

Staring at the drapes hanging over his bed and trying to count the golden stripes could only keep him from nodding off so long.

He was achingly tired. Everything in him was crying, begging to sleep. It made no real sense, since Harry hadn't done anything physically exhausting in the day, not exerted any real effort other than climbing flights of stairs, but still, it was there. He figured mental taxation apparently had the same effect on his body as a day of blind running, and cursed his luck. Voldemort's luck, actually, because the curtains were already blurring, and Harry's stinging eyes were already pulling themselves closed.

_You're such an arsehole, Tom,_  was his last coherent thought before slipping away.

Strangely, when his consciousness rose back up, he was slumped in the corner of a small, rickety wooden room. A few feet in front of him, there was a large, ugly metal trap door, currently firmly clamped shut by a padlock. But little scratches around the lock showed the door was opened frequently. That in itself was odd, because the whole shack was covered in spiderwebs and dust.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and predictably, there stood Lord Voldemort, counting tins of canned food lined neatly against breaking shelves. He didn't seem to be aware of Harry's presence, too focused on comparing different brands of pea soup. "Hi," Harry said, carefully.

Voldemort whipped around, startled. Harry was almost proud to have elicited the reaction, but from the looks of this place, Voldemort's inner paranoia and fear ran deeper than he previously thought. "Harry."

"So, what's this place, then?"

"A shed built atop a bomb shelter," Voldemort said, confirming his suspicions. "The majority of my supplies are below. I've already counted those."

"So, is your mental picture an absolutely perfect clone of reality? Even so, you'd really rather come mentally anyway?"

"Coming here physically risks the security of its location. I only visit on my scheduled checks."

"And you have this because?"

"Muggles have built themselves weapons of such power, on such a grand scale, with such an ability to reek absolute devastation, that I find myself simply astounded at their level of self-destructive, empty-headed posturing. Peacocks strutting their feathers. Digusting. I would rather slit my own throat than succumb to death at _their_  hands."

"Atomic bombs?" Harry asked.

Voldemort scowled. "Yes. At least the wizarding world can pride itself on how fleeting the Killing Curse is. Radiation does not simply 'go away.'"

"Do you have pretty much a contingency plan for everything that could possibly go wrong? Ever?"

"It becomes a requirement, when placed in my position."

Harry rested his head on his knees, thinking. "Poison? Mental torture? Dismemberment? Starvation? Dehydration? Hypothermia? Hyperthermia? Blood loss? Disease? Brain damage?"

"Those would all fall under 'everything that could possibly go wrong, ever', yes."

"Just curious." _And testing a hypothesis._  Harry shrugged. "So, can I come to you if I ever find myself on the brink of death?"

"I expect you to come immediately should anything even approaching such an event occur." Voldemort's eyes narrowed to slits. "I will drag you back from the afterlife personally. Suicide does not circumvent my newfound inability to kill you. Attempt to self-harm, and you'll suffer at my hand instead. Is that clear, Harry?"

"Crystal." Harry held up his hands, surrendering. "So," he began, hoping the results of his experiment wouldn't get him a one-way ticket to Voldemort's personal torture dungeon. Or whatever it was he kept in his myriad of secret things. "How're you feeling this fine evening?"

"Annoyed that you continue to pester me," Voldemort snapped.

"What'd you eat for dinner last night?"

"Roast duck." Suddenly, the Dark Lord was frozen still, no more lifelike than a statue. Slowly, he turned from the shelves to face Harry, looking incandescent with rage. His hands trembled around his wand with the effort of restraining himself. His breathing quickened, barely-there lips pulling up into an animalistic snarl. "Why am I telling you this?"

"'Cause I asked," Harry told him. "That's a thing now, thanks to our connection. Unlike some people, I'm not a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad liar, so I figured you should know. And I only asked questions with pretty obvious answers. Well, except the duck. That sounds great, though."

Harry had never seen such pure hatred in his life. "And I assume this works both ways?" Voldemort's voice was level, but his eyes had lit with something sick.

"Yeah. I'm telling you that because I'm not evil, so you're welcome."

"Is that so?" His mouth was twitching, chest rising and falling, rough, stilted in an attempt to breathe evenly. "For springing this on me with no warning, and for the promise you made to me in a past meeting, I think I've the right to ask a question without an obvious answer."

"Oh," Harry said. "The knowing me thing. Okay, shoot."

"Then I ask, what is it that you would _least_  like to tell me?"

It was depressing how quickly he knew the answer. "I never know what to do with myself when you flirt with me, and it's really embarrassing, since I have a reputation of witty comebacks to uphold. At least threats on my life are familiar territory, you know?"

Voldemort fumbled with the can he was holding, hateful expression faltering, bordering on complete shock. " _What?_ "

Harry chewed his lip. "You asked me what I'd least like to tell you. I answered. And now I'm hoping I can just sink into the floor and disappear forever."

"Do you not have any _context_  for that answer?"

"Y'know. Your Horcruxes. They really like making me squirm."

" _I_ like making you squirm, and yet I haven't resorted to-" Words seemed to have failed him. "To outdated methods I put aside long ago."

"You mean when you didn't look like a walking Renaissance painting anymore?" Voldemort glared. "I dunno, I mean, I think you could still do it. Some people are into the whole scary look. Bad boys, and all. Or, well, murderous men, in this case."

Voldemort looked unwell. "Could I really not think of more original ways to mar your comfort?"

"The tried and tested methods seem to work well enough already, though," Harry said. "You probably saw how stupid I was with Cho in fourth year, and thought, 'Oh, Harry can't handle pretty people talking to him. Perfect.' And I really, really can't. Handle pretty people talking to me, I mean. It's objective fact. So, imagine how I freeze up when someone genuinely _striking_  talks to me. Someone gorgeous. It's the worst. I act like an idiot, and you bask in it, you bastard."

The sickness in Voldemort's eyes immediately turned dark and hungry. "That's what you think of me? That I'm gorgeous?"

"Look, even blind people would want you; they can hear your voice. It's classical -- arguably beautiful, when you're not listing off all the ways you'd like to see me die -- and I was actually thinking of asking you to sing to me. It started off as a joke, but I can't stop being legitimately tempted, now." Harry was flushed deep red again, as was only fitting. "Right. So, as you can see, I've sacrificed all my dignity by telling you about this whole Veritaserum effect thing. Can I please shut up now?"

"You'd like me to sing to you?"

"It sounds stupid, but yeah. Tom and I share our dinner most of the time, so it's always his voice that helps me sleep at night. I always feel really peaceful when we eat together, and I don't have trouble feeling the warm, relaxed kind of full-stomach sleepiness at all anymore. Well, except when I think I've made you mad. Even your yelling is sort of nice, though -- for yelling, I mean. You don't have to raise your voice to threaten people, so I never leave with my ears ringing, y'know? I mean, it's still terrifying, and I still think about punching you for it, but at least I'm not going deaf."

"'Tom'," Voldemort repeated. "You share dinner. You fall asleep to his -- my -- voice every night."

"That's right. You could, too, if you wanted. We can talk through our connection, so if you feel like having a conversation, we're pretty much set." Harry's babbling was no less mortifying than it had been last time. In fact, considering the difference in trust between Voldemort and Tom, it was probably worse. "Unless it's that you want me to call you Tom? I could do that, too. It's a nice name. Suits you."

"Voldemort doesn't suit me?"

"No, it does. But everyone calls you that. I wanted something special, since we share souls." Harry buried his face in his hands. "Can you please, _please_  let me shut up now?"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "I'm enjoying this far too much for that."

Harry had definitely nailed the accidental compliments part of his plan. Maybe it was better this way, if Voldemort was pleased with him, rather than happy to see him strung up and suffocating against a wall. Maybe it was better if he just gave in. "The truth is, I really do like talking with you. That's why it works so well on me. Getting me flustered. Loads of people are good-looking. But they don't have so much interesting stuff to say."

Voldemort stared. "You seem happy with me."

"Tom's my friend. He's one of my best friends, actually."

"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken," Voldemort said after a while, out of nowhere. "And we are, in some part, no longer enemies. What, then, would happen if your blood was no longer forcibly taken? If I had used different tactics, if you had given your blood willingly, I would still have my true face." He gripped Harry's arm. "If your sentiment changes, it can still be restored. Those which are opposites tend to share equal power."

"I'm- I- so- you want your face back? I thought you were moving past 'outdated methods.'"

"I'm not foolish enough to throw away something that works so well," he dismissed. "Especially not if it helps... predispose you to me. 'Waste not, want not.'"

"So. You. Like the idea. Of flustering me?" Just the thought, to his total shame, was succeeding in flustering him.

"I see I'm doing it already."

It was his worst nightmare, but what Voldemort had asked was already true. A deep, hidden part of him had taken a liking to having someone with the face of a Greek statue coming onto him, even if it was for entertainment. Harry wanted to pretend that wasn't the case, but the feeling remained. He craved Tom's attention already. He worked on his magic in order to impress him. He made excuses to get him talking. He begged for lessons in everything. The diadem had complimented him. Tom Riddle, dishing out compliments. Miracles did happen. "Alright," Harry said, every ounce of self-control vanished. "How does that work, then? Do I just say, 'I change my mind about the blood ordeal and we're friends now, so, get to work'?"

Voldemort held out his hand. "Your skills with magic of the mind are still half-formed. The appearance of physical touch will help you process and express your true intent."

Before, it had taken Tom's incessant coaxing to get Harry to grasp his hand. Now Harry was hesitating for a different reason. The same reason that had made him choke on water when Cho walked past. Carefully, he laid his fingers in Voldemort's palm. "Alright."

"Now visualise what it is you want to see as you make your... most generous donation."

"I. How much do I need?"

"No more than a drop. See, a great deal of the work has already been done..."

Harry bit at the quick of his nail with a wince. A cut on his hand was more manageable for his terrible lack of talent as a Healer. He stared at the bead slowly making its way into his palm. "Now what?"

"Feed it to me."

"Like a vampire?" Harry shuddered.

Voldemort was unimpressed. "What an apt description."

After a long, long time of contemplation, he poked Voldemort's mouth with his fingertip, staining his lips red. When he pulled away, Voldemort licked at the traces left behind, and frowned.

"That's not nearly enough."

Harry bristled. "Well, how else am I bloody supposed to 'feed' you my-"

A scowl on bloodied lips made him look even more terrifying. "You could spend more than all of half a second attempting to give any."

Harry edged his finger closer to Voldemort's mouth, fearing they might get bitten off in another fit of rage. For a small moment, it looked rather like Harry was shushing him. Then, Voldemort's mouth was pressed to the open wound, taking far more than just a drop. Harry was about to snap at him for lying, but was left to watch in horror as Voldemort doubled over almost immediately, sinking to the floor with all the grace of a falling brick.

"Voldemort?"

He received only a groan. In one of the most surreal moments of his life, he stood back and stared as Voldemort transformed before his eyes. Voldemort's arms, raised to protect his face, were suddenly dusted in black hair, raised stark against goosebumps. His hands were suddenly gripping messy, thick hair, falling over his eyes. From what Harry could tell, they were still unnatural red. His nails stayed sharp points, his skin remained a glowing, ghostly white, but his mouth, open in a wordless scream, was filled with human teeth again, and his reformed nose scrunched in pain. It seemed almost luck of the draw, what human features returned. Unlike Tom, this Voldemort looked to be somewhere in his forties, but nothing beyond. He would, of course, be destined to age well.

"Are you alright?"

This got a scoff, in between gasps of agony. "Do I appear to be alright?"

"You appear more than alright, actually, considering I thought you were gonna die a few seconds ago. And, hey, you don't have scales." Harry grinned. "Sorry -- or not so sorry -- about the pain, but it worked."

Voldemort stood up, hurried, and held out his hand again, demanding. "Has it? Let me see through your eyes. The mindscape does not blend easily with mirrors."

Harry took it. Voldemort held it tightly for a few choice moments, and then inhaled sharply, eyes wide, unable to hold back a chuckle, twisted and amused. Not high and mocking, but thoroughly satisfied. Something real, and no less disturbing.

"Uh, so. Hello, then."

"You are the single most enthralling creature Lord Voldemort has ever seen." Harry's face was cupped by long, skeletal hands as Voldemort leaned in and examined him like a cell under a microscope. Like he wanted to parse every detail from Harry's soul. "You strange thing, how is it, why is it, that fate chose you?"

The back of his neck grew hot, and he ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Thanks, I think."

"I could have found no more worthy bearer of my soul alone," Voldemort decided. "Perhaps that is why." He stretched with a contented sigh. "I _will_  know more about you. You are _compelling._  But now I must return to the physical world, to test this new form." He carded a hand through Harry's wild hair, mimicking what Harry himself had done only a beat before. "Next time you sleep, I will be there."

Face burning, Harry managed to stutter out something approximating, "Um, okay. Be seeing you, then. Have fun."

His vision faded on Voldemort's face, eyes closed in wonder as his hands ran over fresh stubble and what was once more a face, no longer the half-formed remnants of something that used to resemble one, like a crumbling marble statue. "I assure you, this will be so much more than 'fun'."

* * *

Every minute since he'd first awoken, he'd felt filled to the brim with Voldemort's emotions, overflowing and bursting with joy and excitement. Tom had questioned him, and frowned intensely for a long time after. Harry had promised him that he was planning on spending equal time with all three Voldemorts.

But now, just after lunch, Tom was still sulking. Picking at his food, sliding his fork through cooling mashed potatoes and gravy. He couldn't seem to focus on anything but the floor. Harry sat next to him, crowded tightly against his side. "Are you jealous?" he asked, mischievous.

"No," Tom said.

"You are, aren't you?"

"No. We are the same person. How can I be jealous of myself?"

"You could be jealous that I chose to give him his face. I mean, you have a face. But I could've given you something else, I guess." Harry threw back his shoulders, leaning on his hands and staring at the wall. "I don't know. I'm grasping at straws here."

"You gave me the ability to taste. You never complain when I manifest. You're my student and my friend and my soul. I simply worry for you."

"Don't worry. It's easier to smooth things along, now I can see a lot of similarities between all of you," Harry promised. "Honestly, I'm hoping that the more I meet Voldemort, the more all of your memories will overlap. Soul magic, or something. I forget Voldemort doesn't know me like you know me, sometimes. I just expect him to know stuff. And when he doesn't, I basically end up having to tell you all over."

"Similarities?"

Harry side-eyed him. "For one, all of you seem to love throwing my words back at me. You love it to death."

"It wouldn't be truthful of me to deny that."

Harry shrugged. "I guess I only really act a little different around each of you, anyway," he said. "With the diadem, I'm always aware of how I word things, because he'll inevitably get some sort of innuendo out of it no matter what; with you, I can make more sarcastic jokes; and with Voldemort, I can shock him, and that's a show."

"Shock him?"

"He doesn't expect me to volunteer any information. To be fair, I'd have a very hard time if I tried not to. But I don't try now, because him in a good mood seems to be worth the embarrassment most of the time. Less threatening me and more 'whoever blinks first loses'. Which I will gladly take, thanks."

"He doesn't mock you?"

"No, he does. But people have mocked me all my life. I'm not used to your type of anger in its place. The Dursleys would yell until they went red, maybe slam on the door, send me to bed hungry. But they didn't use bloody psychological warfare."

Tom blinked. "That's an interesting description."

"It's what you do."

"I suppose it is." Tom returned his gaze to the floor. "When I was younger, it was the only weapon I had. I couldn't reliably control my magic. My physical strength, no matter how hard I tried, could not hold off large numbers. But I had a mouth, a tongue, vocal chords. I could break people without touching them. Just a few words and I could finally sleep without looking over my shoulder."

Harry thought back to blowing up Aunt Marge and couldn't say he was very regretful. "I didn't use words so much. I mean, I definitely said some things that made the Dursleys curse being stuck with me, but mainly I just used solitude. And my imagination. I stayed in the cupboard."

"I talked with snakes," Tom said. "I didn't have any human friends. Everyone was afraid of me. The new arrivals were told to stay as far away as they could."

"Just because you had magic?" _Or because you're somehow terrifying without meaning to be?_

"Because anyone who attempted to target me for my magical abilities would find themselves or their loved ones hurt. If they were particularly awful, I made them do whatever I wanted."

"Like what?"

"Back my alibis. Accompany me to dangerous places. Close their unfathomably large mouths for once."

"And nobody asked questions?"

"Of course they did." Tom scoffed. "They brought in psychiatrists. They thought something was terribly wrong with me." He sighed, looking abruptly haunted. "There was. But it wasn't anything they could've identified."

"The Amortentia?"

"And partly self-imposed isolation. I'm not going to blind myself to the fact that lack of human contact warps childhood development. But I'm not quite sure their company would've seen me to any better places, either."

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't."

"Precisely so," said Tom.

"Don't be mad," Harry started, nervous. "There is something a bit wrong with you." He watched, pained, as Tom clamped down on a grimace. "Murderous impulses, and all. Your willingness to throw other people under the bus. But I think that was nurture, not nature. Wool's seemed like hell on Earth, and that's putting it lightly."

"Why single me out in the first place if they couldn't tell I was... a little off?"

"I think part of muggles can still sense magic, though only through vague instinct. And with your level of power, they probably felt, I dunno, threatened. Scared."

"I was a child. I lived in fear of war. And when it happened, I grew even more cautious, more visibly upset."

It was vivid in his mind, a shaking, scared little boy, alienated by his peers for something entirely out of his control. To the backdrop of mass genocide, burning cities, weapons deadlier than ever before, fear tactics, invasions, and propaganda. "Same could be said for them," Harry said. "For the record, though, it's our choices that matter the most. You can want to brutally murder people, but, y'know, _not_  do that."

"Asking me not to murder?" Tom held a hand over his heart. "You're asking for the sun to orbit the Earth."

"My sides." He shook his head. "Voldemort doesn't make any attempt to tamp down on his, uh. Darker urges."

"Darker urges," Tom repeated. "That doesn't make it seem like murder. It sounds far more base."

"Um." Harry straightened his sleeves. "Point proven. Throwing words back at me."

"But you make it so easy, Harry. It's hard to tamp down on the urge."

* * *

Soon, Harry grew restless and impatient, waiting for Dumbledore to call on him. But he was frequently away, and strange things -- stranger things than usual -- were happening at the school without his noticing. Or, perhaps, in the dark recesses of his mind, Harry considered Dumbledore might be ignoring things purposefully. Malfoy's odd behaviour seemed so casually brushed off.

He wanted to take matters into his own hands. He'd followed Malfoy before, trying to piece together just what he was up to, but he'd always ended up letting himself be thrown far off the trail. Malfoy would do something unexpected, something that made no sense, and all Harry had figured out was that Malfoy was fixing something. And he needed the Room of Hidden Things for it.

Not much to go on, but enough to raise concern. What if he brought Lord Voldemort to the school, after what Harry had done? How the hell would he explain himself? Voldemort loved to draw out suffering, he wouldn't -- couldn't -- take all the credit, not if Harry could take the fall. His smug attitude made Harry want to jump off Gryffindor Tower, but all of his grandstanding was easily backed up. He was unfairly talented at everything. But he wouldn't lie about it, especially not if it saved Harry's skin. He'd twist it to his favour, that he -- in all his Glory and Persuasion -- had coerced Harry into granting him access to blood magic, straight out of the veins of the Prophecy's Chosen. Which was true enough to pass.

Harry had no control in his mindscape. He'd wanted to see Tom wear his own face again, but what else had he unknowingly given? He wanted a lot of things, and not all of them were suitable to come true. He wanted the Half-Blood Prince's book back, he wanted to befriend the cruelest wizard alive, he wanted to make Bellatrix pay, he wanted people to listen to him like they had with Voldemort himself. Sometimes he wanted to hang Malfoy from the ceiling by his bloody silk pants. Actually, sometimes he wanted to hang _Tom_  from the ceiling by his bloody silk pants, too.

None of those were good ideas. But what if he'd given Voldemort the power to carry them out? Worse, what if Voldemort had given _him_  that power? A power he knew not. Literally.

What would Harry do then?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN?? This isn't all bc I was Googling Ralph Fiennes or anything (and it certainly wasn't [this picture](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/af/a6/e4/afa6e4ea5c311d23ffd4ab026047a2d3.jpg) in specific that inspired me or anything). ShUsh r i ght now how dare you accuse me of such shallow reasoning????!!! i follow A PLOT. i have nARRATIVE. i breATHE charACTER DEVELOPMENt. i have never seen a gay. voldemort is not flirting. harry doesn't know about the pants tom wears. everything is realism.
> 
> oh my god what the hell do i keep doing
> 
> snake-faced voldemort will still appear though. i juST want all the toms???
> 
> Forgive me for being so late! I fell sick with the suckiest virus ever, and it made writing really difficult to focus on, and I worried that it might turn into something out of a fever dream. Then I realised pretty much everything I write seems like it's out of a fever dream regardless. Oooops?? :S


	10. Foresight

Harry was dozing on the sofa in the Common Room, face pressed against soft fabric, thinking about anything but his current reality. Just the sight of Tom made Ginny pale and nauseous, but she'd taken to purposefully sitting in the Common Room whenever he was around, until she didn't feel the overwhelming need to 'punch him in the face and forget to bloody breathe'. Now she had her head firmly buried in her newspaper, perched neatly on the back of the sofa, relaying the news to Ron, who hadn't wanted to have his morale smashed first-hand. "Well," she said. "It's not good. Three dementor attacks this week, and nobody seems to want to talk about it. You know I've heard Romilda moping and crying about the failure of her love chocolates at least once an hour without fail since it happened?"

"She's really that upset?" Harry asked.

"She says she knows your heart's been stolen by someone in Slytherin." Ginny scoffed. "'Stolen.' That's not how it works. Besides, you know what this means? She's been staring at you enough to have noticed how much time you spend with Voldysnort. Just thinking about that makes me feel dirty."

Tom fluffed up like an angry cat. "With _whom?_ "

"Oh, sorry, did I say it wrong?" Ginny smiled.

"Yes," Tom said, at the same time as Harry's, "No." Then he glared.

"She thinks I'm dating, uh, what's his name again? Veldeport?"

"She's not shut up about it." Ginny huffed. "Don't misinterpret, I'll commiserate, but after the first fifteen times, it got old. Part of growing up is learning to move on and realise your one true love is married to a snake, and that's just life."

"Thanks for that unforgettable lesson," said Harry.

"You're welcome."

Ginny remained glued to her newspaper, and Ron was humming something off-key. But Hermione was looking even more transfixed by something old and faded in her hands. It looked like the Daily Prophet, but an article that hadn't seen light for thirty years. Hermione was reading it like the news was recent. "Harry," she said. "Look here."

Harry peered over her shoulder. There was a very stern looking woman pictured, face unmoving, the only sign of life in her breathing. She seemed the dreariest person imaginable. "Who's that? She looks like Umbridge when she has to face the fact that other people actually like one another, y'know, _genuinely._ "

"Eileen Prince," Hermione said. "I've been looking for possible candidates for the author of that Potions book, Harry."

"The Half-Blood Prince's book? Can't we just move on from this?"

Hermione ignored him. "Her last name. Take a look."

"Yeah, it's Prince, but I'm pretty convinced the Half-Blood Prince was a bloke, though. I mean, _Prince._ Smug and condescending enough to be actually invoking royalty, not their real name. Plus, Eileen doesn't look like she's got a creative or witty bone in her body. She looks kind of dead. No, really, look."

"She's in this paper for an award, Harry."

"For being empty inside?"

"No, for becoming Captain of the Gobstones. Sound familiarly brilliant?"

"The Half-Blood Prince wasn't a girl. I can feel it... with my manly senses."

"What's that even supposed to mean?" Hermione gave him an exhausted look. "Girls can't be brilliant? Girls can't invent dark magic?"

"You're brilliant, and I've never met someone darker than Bellatrix. So, no, not that, I swear. He just seemed. I don't know. I felt like I knew him, even though I've never met him. I could almost see him." Harry shrugged. "I mean, Eileen could be. To be fair, I don't know her. She could've been the Prince. But she just looks so... I dunno. Mournful."

"And the Half-Blood Prince wasn't? You don't think someone who invents a spell to hurt others so severely was mournful?"

"He seemed kind of angry, actually. His notes were really sarcastic and bitter; he wasn't impressed with the original text at all. Eileen doesn't look like she'd feel anything about anything."

"We can't rule her out."

Harry sighed. "Why's it so important? If we _do_  find the author, what will we do? Get them detention for dark spells? Thirty years late? We don't even know if they ended up using them. Maybe they had a terrible day and came up with it in a fit of rage?"

"We'd get answers!"

Harry shook his head. A dark witch or wizard from decades ago? No doubt they would've found themselves entangled in the business of the very man sitting next to him, feathers ruffled, having a tantrum over a nickname. How likely was it that the Prince was alive? And if they were, how likely was it that they'd come out of the War intact? Voldemort indicated that Harry's sharp tongue was the first he'd tolerated. Was the Prince a master of self-control? Or did Tom have their tongue cut out and used in one of their potions as an ironic punishment? "That's not a guarantee."

"It's better than nothing."

Part of Harry was terrified to meet the Prince. He'd found a friend in their ghost, but people changed. Everyone in this room proved that point. The Prince could be unrecognisable, and despite himself, Harry might grieve that loss. It seemed like something he would do.

Harry was pulled out of his reverie when an excited Jimmy Peakes came running up to him and shoved a scroll into his open hand. "For you," Jimmy said, stared sceptically at Tom's strikingly not-red tie, blinked, and rubbed at his eyes. When he'd sufficiently clued in on the fact that, no, he was not hallucinating, he seemed unbothered. "I thought the 'no inter-house friends in the Common Room' rule was stupid anyway," he muttered, finally, more to himself, and Harry laughed. Tom looked thunderstruck. "A prefect's badge? Mate, I like your style. Did you steal that? Are you sure you're a Slytherin, with that daring?" Jimmy grinned. "Right. I'm off, then. I'm only errand boy because I got a free period out of this. Enjoy your note."

"Thanks, Jimmy."

"Worth it," he replied, and ran off.

"Strange owl," Harry said, in his wake.

"Can I have him instead of Errol?" Ginny asked.

Carefully, Harry unwrapped the parchment, noticing elegant, curled, sweeping handwriting, finely printed. He couldn't even find a single inkdrop. If Harry hadn't suspicions already, the end was signed unmistakably with Dumbledore's name. A summons. "I think Dumbledore's finally about to show me the Horcrux."

Ron stopped humming. "Is he-? Are you-?"

"Going? I have to." Harry grabbed his shoulder. "I'll be safe. I know a few spells, and if all else fails, I have the two most powerful wizards in the world with me."

"If you don't come back I'm going to kill you myself," Ron said.

"I'm holding you to that."

* * *

Harry was running down the hallways at breakneck speed, feet pounding impossibly loud against cobblestone floors. He was pushing himself hard enough to be dizzy with it, vision blurring, breath catching, legs cramping. Tom was at his side, unfazed, without the need for any form of sustenance except where he was curled, nested, in Harry's soul.

Nothing mattered except reaching Dumbledore's office, until he stopped dead at the sound of a panicked scream and a heavy thud from around a corner. The effort of stopping was practically enough to wind him, sending him sprawling against the wall. Once he'd regained his footing, he ended his path directly in front of Professor Trelawney, many bracelets clattering to the ground, slipping off her shaking hands. Her glasses were cracked, and around her was what seemed like the Malfoy's entire liquor cabinet. "Professor?"

"I'm alright, dear boy, only shaken." Trelawney untangled the beads from her wild hair. "A gruesome brute has knocked me down without a care in the world! And he was all too glad to run off and leave me here to what could have very possibly been my death. The Inner Eye forewarned me all day, but I couldn't have imagined- being accosted in the castle!"

"What were you doing here in the middle of an empty hallway, Professor?"

"Why, nothing of any significance, certainly-"

Careless students eager to escape the notice of even an injured teacher? Empty, winding hallways? "Were you, by any chance, trying to get into the Room of Requirement?"

"I'll give no weight to spurious accusations, but, on this occasion, you see, it was necessary for me to store away a few personal items-"

"The alcohol," Harry said.

"Personal items," Trelawney continued. "Which are easily kept safe in the Room of Requirement, or so I thought. Students aren't supposed to be aware of its existence."

"I required it quite a bit," Harry clarified. "So you ran into someone who didn't want anyone knowing they'd been there?"

"Exactly so, Harry. I've so missed your contributions in class."

"I'm an awful Seer."

"But such a wonderful Object! Truly, an unprecedented talent for acquiring such terrible luck." Trelawney cleared her throat. "Yes, I ran into someone who desperately wanted anonymity. I came in and they were throwing themselves a celebration! You'd think they'd want for company, of course. Not even the Inner Eye would expect such an offence."

"A celebration?"

"They were whooping and cheering! But as soon as I called out, they couldn't leave fast enough."

Malfoy had fixed it. Shit, shit, if Voldemort came to the castle tonight, and Trelawney, for all her tea leaves and mysticism, had the disturbing knack to predict everything perfectly. If she'd been experiencing premonitions, visions of the future, it was possible the Death Eaters were on their way to storm the school at this very moment. "Did you see them?"

"Why would I be paying attention to their face, dear boy, when they were throwing me to the floor?"

"Your Inner Eye didn't see?"

"There is a great deal more to focus on than a passing face."

Okay, no sight. But they'd been cheering. They hadn't been some elusive shadow; they'd barreled right past with the force to blow over a grown woman. Some trace had to remain. "Did they sound specific at all? Male? Female?"

"Well, male, I suppose."

Malfoy. It was Malfoy. Harry had known it, but he'd hoped, he'd wished it was Tom's paranoia, that everything was in his head. But Trelawney herself knew he had an unprecedented talent for terrible luck, and terrible luck dictated that Malfoy had been successful in whatever endeavour the Death Eaters had set for him. "You know, Professor, you ought to report this."

"Really, I haven't needed the Inner Eye to see the headmaster has not appreciated my previous reports, no matter how the Fates tell us dark times have fallen. I'm above forcing my company on those who do not desire it."

"Well, this is different," Harry said, swallowing with difficulty. Dark times falling. That seemed fitting, given their current predicament. "Stuff like this just can't be allowed to pass. It's unacceptable."

Trelawney blinked. "You really think Dumbledore should hear about this?"

"Yeah. In fact, I was just headed to his office right now. We can go together."

"Very well, then. You're right, of course, that such rude behaviour cannot be encouraged. Students tossing away their teachers like ragdolls!"

That, and maybe Dumbledore might finally take what Harry had to say seriously. Maybe, just maybe, he'd stop dismissing Harry's accusations as paranoid delusions brought on from the half-mad soul latched onto him since birth. Now he knew of Tom's existence, all his opinions should be discredited? Somehow his thought process had changed from the six years before? That was ridiculous.

Trelawney had unceremoniously dropped off her collection of non-paranormal spirits in one of the school's many hidden nooks, before brushing herself off and heading with a determined righteousness in the direction of Dumbledore's office. "The other Seers must, too, see our coming doom. But none with the Gift have sought to warn our headmaster, save me. But it seems I cannot be taken seriously in such dire circumstances."

"Coming doom," Harry repeated, gloomy.

"I suppose Dumbledore has his reasons, for such a respectable man. But I do not dictate how the Cards fall, as I'm sure he is aware." Trelawney sighed. "But it hasn't done anything to chase away the rumours about my abilities. Pure hearsay, a small comfort for the jealous, yet is so widely believed. You know what I tell these doubters, Harry? I say, 'How can that be true if Dumbledore has let me work here all these years? How can it be true if I have his trust?' And I have, since the day I first met him! My unforgettable interview. I was hired on the spot."

Harry hummed something vaguely approving, which Trelawney took as permission to continue.

"I was at the Hog's Head, feeling rather under the weather, from lack of food or from the unsavoury conditions, I'm not sure, and I didn't have much hope for my chances. Dumbledore seemed quite disinclined to the practice of Divination. To my luck, would you believe it-"

_You delivered the Prophecy that named me as Chosen and the sole being with the power to defeat Voldemort?_  Harry had been told this story before. Of course he had, when it seemed everyone was excessively dedicated to seeing every last word come to pass. Even Voldemort had been surprised when Harry suggested they just ignore the whole bloody thing. And why couldn't they? Why _shouldn't_  they?

"-none other than Severus Snape was raising a fuss outside!"

Harry stopped. "What?"

"The barman hadn't taken lightly to Snape wandering around places he ought not to be. Of course, Snape was insisting he'd taken a wrong turn up the stairs, but I know he was listening in, dear boy. He, too, wanted to find himself under Dumbledore's employ, and I imagine he'd been hoping for some tips and tricks." Trelawney shook her head. "Needless to say, cheating endeared him to no-one. Dumbledore must have put aside his scepticism of the Mystical Arts in the face of such a contrast between my unassuming nature and Snape's terribly uninviting and uncouth aura."

Instead of agreeing to condemn Snape's unprofessional behaviour, as Trelawney expected, Harry's mind was flying far past a mile a minute.

"Harry, are you quite alright?"

He was not quite alright. Or even slightly alright. Snape had overheard the Prophecy and delivered it straight into Voldemort's waiting hands? Snape and the bloody Rat had, in one swift blow, sentenced his mother and father to death, just by opening their big mouths. How could they? How could they sit by and admire their stature within an organisation of terrorists while his parents suffered?

Harry was running down the hallway within seconds, waving away Trelawney's shock and concern. "I've got to go now. Something important's come up. You stay here!" he called.

"But, we were certainly just on our way to tell Dumbledore about my being knocked down so disgracefully violently-"

" _You stay here!_ "

* * *

He was panting and dead on his feet by the time he arrived at Dumbledore's office. The man himself was curled regally in his seat, hands clasped together, looking perfectly composed. "Oh, Harry! I'm glad to see my note was delivered successfully."

"Sir."

"It's about time to set off. I do believe I promised you you could come along, after all."

He was still reeling from the revalation, and everything that went in one ear seemed to come out the other. Also, he was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, and his vision was going hazy at the edges. "Come along?"

"To the Horcrux."

Between the sickening hatred curdling in his stomach, he was flooded with gratitude at being allowed to get his hands on Pandora's Box at last. "Thank you, sir."

"Of course, there are a few points we must cover first. One can never be too cautious with these things."

Impatience flooded him. Every second the Horcrux wasn't safe in his hands, he risked letting Tom fall permanently to madness. "Points, sir?"

"First, I'd like to know what's wrong, Harry."

It was natural that Dumbledore should notice, but Harry still winced internally. He didn't trust himself to stay calm right now. He didn't know how much he could control. "Nothing's wrong."

Dumbledore looked sympathetic. "You've never been very good at hiding things from me, I'm afraid."

Harry scowled. "Trelawney told me something interesting," he spat. "She said Snape was there the night she delivered the Prophecy. She said he listened in."

"That's right," said Dumbledore.

"And you let him work here? You let him stay after leaving my parents to the dogs?"

"He didn't know you were the one the Prophecy had chosen, Harry. It is, I believe, his worst regret in life. Not a day goes by that he doesn't pay for it."

Did Dumbledore think that would make it better? Regret couldn't undo anything etched into the flow of time. "Yeah, so if I hadn't been the Chosen One, that'd make it any better? He'd still have let some random family die. He'd still have set Tom on them like a rabid animal."

"Yes. He would have. But he's since seen the true intent behind Voldemort's regime. He's come a very long way."

Harry knew it was hypocritical to forgive Voldemort so easily and yet remain resentful towards someone -- though arguably unpleasant -- with a thousand times greater moral standing. But Voldemort would always have killed. If not Harry's parents, someone else's. But Snape wasn't born under the influence of amortentia. What excuse did he have for caring so little about the consequences of his actions? What could he possibly say to defend himself, especially after daring to claim he cared for Harry's mother?

"You lied to me," Harry said.

"I simply didn't tell you."

A very familiar rage was boiling inside him, cooking his guts from the inside out, painting the metal taste of blood on his tongue. His face curled into a snarl. " _That's still lying!_ "

"It was, indeed, a lie, Harry. But surely you understand why I couldn't possibly tell you?"

"So you hid it from me?" Harry's eyes narrowed into slits. "You thought you could do that?"

Of course, Dumbledore _could_  do that, and he had, and Harry would go as far as to say he was entitled to, given the generally horrifically unstable atmosphere in Hogwarts. But Dumbledore was someone he'd trusted implicitly for as long as he could remember; he'd grown up viewing Dumbledore as a role model and an exemplary wizard, and much like realising an idiolised parent can't be held on a pedestal forever, seeing the ability for anything morally dubious in the famed, much loved, and adored headmaster was an overwhelming dose of cognitive dissonance.

Usually, Harry would deal with this by shutting down and trying to hide himself from the severity of the situation. But this was Dumbledore, and part of his soul was connected to the person who hated him most. It was like swallowing bleach, this poisonous wrath trickling through his veins, warping his perspective. Dumbledore's arguably logical decision felt like a personal attack. Like his mother and father's image was being purposefully defaced, despite the practical impossibility of such a thing being the case.

Most of Voldemort's anger was controllable. Barely controllable, with disastrous consequences when not properly reigned in, but at least tampered in some shape or form. Now it was as if a dragon were crawling up his throat, like he was going to burn from the inside out.

Is this what Voldemort was born into? The feeling of constantly losing control, the desperate urge to maim and lash out? No wonder he'd gone mad with it. It was agonising.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, or run, or pass out entirely. But all he could do was clench his fists until his nails dug little bloody crescents into his palms and grind his teeth to powder on his tongue.

"It seemed the best choice at the time," Dumbledore told him. "And quite frankly, I still believe that to be so."

From an objective standpoint, he knew Dumbledore was right. But that alone was not enough to quell the acid stinging the back of his throat. "How _dare_  you, old man," Harry snapped. His rational mind had retreated and left Voldemort in its wake. "You've _always_  treated me with such disrespect-" He was choking. "No, not me- him- stop it, Tom, I-" He was ripping at his mind with his own hands. "Don't!"

And then everything went numb.

He buried his head in his hands. After a long silence, he said, "I'm letting him do it again."

"If you intend to find another Horcrux, you cannot afford to allow him so much control. It's too dangerous."

"I know. I swear I'm working on it." He frowned. "Alright, there hasn't been anything to work _on_  until now. I'm so used to it that it can't really bother me anymore. Or, it wasn't supposed to." He sighed, chin resting against his folded hands. "It's always different with you. If you get brought up, he just gets _so_  angry, not like with anyone else. They're all idiots, to him, so it's like- like getting angry at a bug. But you're not that simple. You can see through him."

Dumbledore nodded and accepted this. "I can understand why such a thing would get him so... uniquely riled up. But you, too, can see through him, can't you, Harry? And he seems to be treating you with some very slight measure of care."

"I mean, we share each other's thoughts. I understand him in a way that literally no-one else can, because I have a constant window into his soul. I guess he thinks it's only natural that I'd see through him, but I understand him, too." Harry shrugged. "Well, not ideologically, but I can empathise with the kind of pain he's been through. Feeling alone and abandoned. The parallels scare me, but they help him, so they could be worse."

"That's an admirable view on something that must undoubtedly terrify you."

"Truthfully, I'd rather something else help him, but there's no way to change most of our similarities, anyway, so it's best to see the silver lining. Even the things that can be changed, they'd never really be true to myself, right? I guess it wouldn't be so bad if I dyed my hair, I'd just look stupid. But that seems kind of like something a toddler would do, honestly."

"It would be childish," Dumbledore agreed. "A fun revenge for a moment, certainly. Unfortunately, hair colour doesn't determine our personal values and choices."

"Probably that's a good thing," Harry said, cheekily. "Voldemort would look terrible as a blonde."

* * *

Dumbledore had insisted Harry drink some tea and have some of the sweets from his vast collection before continuing on. It made sense that Dumbledore would want to keep an even sharper eye on him and ensure he was calm enough to actually properly process information, but Harry was antsy, and not even an entire cupboard of sherbet lemons could keep the anticipation from worming its way into his insides and rotting there.

He had absolutely no idea what he'd find in whatever location Voldemort had chosen to hide his Horcrux. It could be guarded with the darkest magic imaginable. There could be nothing there at all. Voldemort himself could be lying in wait for them to appear and walk themselves right into a trap and get picked like apples on a tree.

Somehow, he didn't think Dumbledore knew much about what lay ahead, either. Surely how to enter, what the Horcrux looked like, maybe even the exact point it was hidden and how to reveal it. But not what kind of sick things they'd inevitably have to face down in order to retrieve it. Not what it was like as an individual. To be fair on his last point, only Harry could sense Tom's soul with that sort of precision. Only Harry could hear it so clearly, know it so intimately, and feel its every emotion as his own.

He wasn't certain the state of mind this Horcrux would be in. The diadem was relatively protected in the Room of Hidden Things for so many years, but the others couldn't be so lucky. They'd have faced innumerable challenges. It was almost a guarantee that he and Dumbledore were not the first to hunt them down -- but also that they were the first with intentions to preserve, to restore, and not destroy.

It could be mad. It might be worse than Voldemort himself. Harry knew absolutely nothing.

"Before I tell you anything about this Horcrux, you must promise me something," Dumbledore said.

Harry tilted his head. "Promise you what?"

"No matter what happens, do exactly as I tell you. Even if I tell you to run and leave me behind. Give me your word you will listen to me, Harry."

"Leave you behind?" He gaped, eyebrows raising to his hairline, horrified. "You want me to _abandon_  you?"

"Well, I'd prefer if you didn't. But with magic this dark, we may find that such drastic measures are necessary. It's a truth you must accept if you want to find any of the others. Especially if you wish to survive long enough to return them."

Harry knew he was right, from a point of view without sentimentality or emotion. But every part of him railed against the idea as hard as he could. "I'm not- I can't-"

"You have the power within yourself to make these terrible sorts of decisions. And I'm afraid I have to ask you to exercise it, no matter how great the pain. Your life is the number one priority, not getting a hold of the Horcrux."

Harry thought that was bullshit, personally. Voldemort could no longer kill him, but he had every reason to kill Dumbledore. In cold blood and without a single trace of mercy. Yet, if he was going to learn the location of any of the remaining shards, Dumbledore's word was now law, despite how vehemently he disagreed. "Alright," he said. "I promise."

"Good," Dumbledore told him. "Now, I think it's better to show than to tell. Return to me with your Cloak of Invisibility, and be prepared. What lies ahead is more dangerous than we can yet conceive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent the past five billion months working on the chapter after this, actually, but I am still V FRIKKin nervous about posting this one. I mean,,, listen, JK did it better and we all know it. So just copying and pasting things exactly how they happened in the books is out, but there is Slightly Adapting Them (even the bit about harry's gaydar i MEAN HIS PERCEPTIVENESS detecting the half-blood prince being a dude). And hAVING BACKGROUND CHARACTERS RAMBLE WHEN IT'S NOT NEEDED? Still, all of the exact same notes are covered, except, uh, alTERNATE UNIVERSES MAKE WHAT THEY'D SAY A LITTLE DIFFERENT... and stuff. And in the face of the rEaL AcTuAL BoOk, i TREMBLE. So like this is pulled out of my ass and I'm gonna explode now b Y E 
> 
> but real talk i accidentally inject humour in where i shouldnt bUT HEY THE LADY WHO WROTE MY IMMORTAL IS A PROFESSIONAL PUBLISHED AUTHOR NOW (AND EXCEPTIONALLY TALENTED) SO FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS I GUESS???
> 
> kill me pls,,, enD tHIS
> 
> (also famed multishipper here,,, harry abt snape like "i could almost see him" and im like AND I COULD ALMOST WRITE "i could almost taste him" but sHIT one ship at a time)


	11. Plunge

By the time he returned to the Dorms, Hermione was pacing back and forth, worrying at the sleeves of her robes. Ron was sprawled over the sofa, an arm draped over his eyes, face pale and skin clammy.

"He's taking me there," Harry announced. "To the Horcrux. I don't have much time before I have to get back."

Hermione stopped dead. "You're going alone?"

"I have Dumbledore. And Tom."

"Yeah, until you run into the bigger, scarier, fanged Tom and he and junior decide to have a little chat, where they decide to kill Dumbledore, and then kidnap you, and probably roast you and eat you for appetizers at the next Death Eater soirée," Ron said, all in one long, shaking breath, and Harry realised his friends were probably in a worse state than he was.

"That's very detailed," Harry told him. "But really inaccurate. If anything, Voldemort would probably keep me and turn my hair into violin strings or something. No eating. Doesn't seem like the eating type."

"That's even worse!" Ron cried. "Oh, Merlin, he's going to play you as an instrument to accompany his singing voice, and he's going to make your teeth into a necklace and thread your eyelashes into a friendship bracelet and turn your toenails into a backscratcher and-"

"Stop, stop!" Harry begged. "He won't do any of that, because... I'll, uh, well, I'll- punch him... in the face... with our mental link. I'll slap him with his own mind powers before he -- did we do skin? I don't think so. Before he weaves my skin into a jacket."

Hermione ground her teeth. "If you two could be serious for a minute."

"I am serious!" Ron pointed to Harry's scar. "He's gonna walk out of this with ten more of those, and we're going to have his tooth jewelry sent to us in the post."

"Your faith in me is very reassuring, thanks."

"He's going to be brutally murdering you while you tell him about the time you accidentally turned your hair purple in Potions. Or how Fred and George convinced you Malfoy was a Veela for a whole month."

"Why do you have to be right? That is a very weird and uncomfortable level of accuracy, Ron. With that and the tooth necklace, I'm starting to get concerned."

"You should be!" Ron snapped. "You-Know-Who is a very concerning individual."

"Who intends to destroy you both if Harry doesn't return to _saving my soul,_  like I told him to in the very beginning."

Tom's voice had come from directly over Harry's shoulder. He could almost feel the steady rhythm of breaths against his neck. "One day I'll die of shock and you'll regret it," Harry said to him. It was honest truth.

"I'd celebrate by serving you with fine wine and cheese at my next soirée."

"This is all very witty," Hermione cut in. "But aren't you the least bit concerned about being completely unprepared?"

"Dumbledore told me to take my Invisibility Cloak. That's preparation."

"Hardly. What about Dittany? Any other basic first aid? Food and water? A spare set of clothes?"

"I think if I needed that, I'd have been told." Harry paused. "Also, why would I be getting out of my clothes?"

He could just sense the grey hairs forming on Hermione's head. "You know what I mean!"

"I promise, I'll do everything I can to keep out of harm's way. I'll even stay under the Invisibilty Cloak the whole time, and make no daring rescues. Well, I probably won't do that, but you get the point."

Hermione gripped his wrists. "Harry, please."

He sobered. "I know, but I have to do this. Alone. After all, in the mean time, you'll have to be guarding the castle."

"From what?"

"Malfoy's planning something big tonight, I can tell. He got caught in the Room of Hidden Things earlier. You have to make sure he doesn't succeed at whatever it is he's trying to do. Him, and Snape, too."

Ron balked. "What's Snape got to do with anything?"

"I know he's in on it. Listen, it's imperative you don't let him get away with this." Not that Harry had a clue what 'this' was. But Malfoy had been so dedicated, so dead set on fixing the object in the Room of Hidden Things, that Harry was certain the Death Eaters were involved. He was either trying to impress them, or too piss scared to raise a fuss. "I admit, I haven't got any ideas what he's going to do, but trust me when I say he's going to do _something._  And it has to do with whatever it is he's fixed in that room."

"How can you be positive, Harry?"

"I can't be," Harry told her. He could've lied, it's what Tom would've done, and arguably his best bet at getting Malfoy stopped. But the bond he had with her and Ron, he couldn't tread on that lightly. That was part of what made him and Tom different, part of what helped him sleep at night, reassured him he wasn't destined to the same fate. He had friends he could be loyal to. "But if anyone's got the most credible hunches when it comes to the Death Eaters, it's me, right?"

Hermione, rightfully, didn't look at all convinced. "I'll look after the room for you," she ceded. "But for the record, I'm not sure we'll even find anything. It's honestly a ridiculous idea in the first place."

"I don't know how I know, but I know. Something's going to happen tonight."

"I trust your instinct," she said. "If anything shows up, Ron and I will take care of it. I promise."

"Thank you. I have to run, but stay safe, alright? Punch Malfoy like in Third Year again if you have to. Even if you don't have to, actually."

"You're telling  _us_ to stay safe?"

"I'll keep him safe," said Tom, in place of what would've been Harry's pathetic excuse. There was a lot of irony in that statement, really.

"Forgive me if I find that a little hard to believe." And really, Harry wouldn't have either, in any other circumstance. But it was in Tom's self-interest to keep Harry alive, and that wasn't a motivation he could pass up, even if it weren't tied so intimately to his own death, nevermind Harry's.

Tom was unmoved. "You don't have to believe it."

"I know he will, 'Mione. If I die, he dies, yeah? He won't let that happen."

Ron raised a hand from his spot draped like a rug over the sofa. "Watch your back nonetheless, mate."

"I'm always watching my back," Harry lied. The fact that no-one believed him was probably not a testament to the chances of this mission's success.

* * *

Descending and ascending the moving staircases to get back to Dumbledore's office seemed to make him dizzier than usual. The patterns on the stone walls looked like faces again, the whispering of the portraits sounding far too much like his name. He hated it, the paranoia, the creeping feeling of dread. He didn't know how Tom could ever stand it.

Not that he had with any particular grace. It felt like there were ants under his skin, like his mind was buzzing, humming like a hive of bees. He had the urge to scratch at his skin and tear the crawling insects from beneath it. If that was what Tom had felt every day, then Harry understood completely why he'd -- in a certain sense -- shed his old skin entirely.

"What if Voldemort shows up?"

"Voldemort is right next to you," Tom told him, facetiously.

"I can't believe I gave you that smartarse habit."

"Or did I give it to you?"

Every Tom wanted to see himself in Harry. He expected it, and yet it sent chills through his spine every time. The terrifying feeling that nothing about him was truly real, that he was just some strange, half-baked, watered-down form of Voldemort. Nothing truly original, a shoddy counterfeit painting. It was an indescribably awful feeling. "I don't think it matters either way," he lied. Tom raised an eyebrow. "Existential crises aside, you're still a smug shit."

"To answer your question," Tom said, brushing smoothly over the insult Harry had just thrown in his face, "Voldemort will show up, if your connection is as I suspect it is. Which is to say, increasingly more intimate-"

"Phrasing," Harry interrupted.

"-and very much not something he intends to ignore."

"So what do I do? He can't kill me, but he  _can_ kill-"

"Dumbledore is already dead," Tom dismissed. Harry dug his nails into his palm. "He sealed his fate when he destroyed my Horcrux, Harry."

"How convenient for you."

"It was," Tom admitted. "It was also not my choice, precisely."

"Precisely," Harry repeated, dry.

Tom huffed. "I don't understand your fondness for him."

"It's different for you." He wasn't so young as to ignore Dumbledore's every flaw, but he'd been Harry's guardian angel these past years, as much as he spent the half of it lying through his teeth. For Tom, all Dumbledore had done was to take him from one world of suffering to another.

"He's still the same man."

"I am known to be magnanimous," Harry said, poking an accusing finger to Tom's chest.

To this, there was no rebuttal.

* * *

Dumbledore seemed entirely unsurprised to see only Harry's head appear in the entrance of his office, waving his healthy hand and beckoning Harry farther. Harry looked to his side, only to find the spot Tom once occupied entirely empty. It was odd to see Tom's hatred run strong enough that he couldn't bare to set eyes upon his own enemy. Voldemort, even before the apparition of Riddle had manifested, was always too eager to observe. He'd watched Harry like a hawk, all hungry eyes and strange little half-smiles. Part of it convinced Harry that Voldemort had a streak of blue and bronze in him, so desperate for knowledge that he would prey on it.

"Looking for someone?" Dumbledore asked.

"Apparently not."

"Come, then." Dumbledore held out an arm, and Harry immediately felt ill simply from the thought.

"We're Apparating? In Hogwarts? To- where exactly to?"

Dumbledore waved his arm again, expectant. Harry looked at it and grimaced. "I suppose I'm permitted to break a few rules," he explained, without really saying anything at all. "You get used to the feeling over time."

Yes, because that would soothe him. "I might even  _not_ be sick."

"As to our destination," Dumbledore continued, cryptic, and Harry felt, in that moment, if it weren't already true, that his soul would have connected with Tom's in sympathy, "that will become apparent."

Reluctantly, Harry took his arm. The world turned upside down, and he felt his insides twist, the disgusting sick feeling of being too big to fit in his own skin welling up within him. As soon as it started, it was over, and Harry opened his eyes to a churning current below. He stumbled, and fell back onto cold, wet rock, soaked with rain and seawater. "The place is trying to bloody kill me already."

"Welcome to Tom Riddle's most beloved vacation spot."

"Fitting," Harry said, despairing.

Dumbledore pointed to the nearby cliffs, where Harry could vaguely make out what looked like the opening of a cave. "I regret to inform you we're in for a little swim."

Could this even manage to get even more unbearable? Of course, compared to Voldemort, left unchecked, Horcruxes untouched, wreaking havoc upon Wizarding Britain, an icy bath was an absolute gift. But the turmultuous water beneath him seemed momentarily a worse fate. Dumbledore had already jumped, unaffected in a way that was both admirable and incredibly disturbing. Harry plunged in after him.

And rose to the surface again, spitting saltwater. "Why not a tropical island?"

"Not as close to home," Dumbledore called. "Too pleasant perhaps for the victims he would drag here from the orphanage to accompany him."

Tom had mentioned as much, once. But Harry had -- perhaps foolishly, naïvely -- assumed he made them escort him places like bodyguards. Maybe use them like taste-testers for whatever awful experiment he had cooked up. But to force them down a cliffside, through a whirlpool, and into a dark, sharp-cragged cave was a different story. How young had they been? Had Tom even needed Imperio, or had the threat of whatever sick punishment, whoever would be next to hang bloodied from the rafters, been enough all on its own?

Dumbledore swam on, until he reached what Harry soon realised were a set of steps. There, he climbed, elegant for someone of his indeterminate, expansive lifespan, up into a small alcove, like it were a nice welcoming hall where he could wipe his shoes on the doormat and come in for tea.

Harry was shaking and dripping all over the floor. It smelt somewhat metallic, but Harry hoped, likely in vain, that this was an aftereffect of the salt stinging his nostrils. Dumbledore was entranced by the rockface before him, and Harry more than ever envied his ability to seem completely unruffled by everything and anything. "Aren't you cold?"

"Oh, forgive me," Dumbledore said, absently, and Harry was dry immediately. He'd not even taken his eyes off the foreboding incline of the walls that surrounded them.

"Is it too much to ask for a door?"

"I'm afraid so."

Harry could sense there was a puzzle to this, but that was about as far as his intuition brought him. Dumbledore seemed precisely aware of whatever intricate design Tom had no doubt lain before them. He briefly indulged in the absurdity of the situation, and imagined the lock to their much-wanted door was a riddle. It was a good pun. It didn't require ritual sacrifice. Dumbledore could certainly figure it out.

But Tom had -- to their misfortune -- gained his sense of humour long after hiding a piece of his broken soul here. Harry would not be surprised to find they needed to return with the warm corpse of an innocent lamb, or something else appropriately nauseating. "So," he began, awkwardly.

Dumbledore held his withered hand to the rock, presumably to commune with it, and then slowly shook his head. "Surely not something so overdone."

"What?"

"I find- I might even be a little disappointed." Harry was about to ask if the stones had personally betrayed him, when Dumbledore said something that made him freeze, despite being charmed warm. "Blood payment."

Harry held his head in his hands. "Oh, that's absolutely classic. He would. He _would._ "

Dumbledore had a knife to his palms before Harry could blink. Stupidly, he rushed forward and knocked it from Dumbledore's grasp. "Your blood is far too valuable, Harry."

"Metaphorically speaking," Harry started, uneven, "Voldemort already has my blood. What, with the bond and all." And his idiot decisions. Not that this needed to be said. "And given that I'm a Horcrux, wouldn't the cave be more likely to accept me? And maybe not try to kill us because that would be a form of slightly poetic suicide?"

Dumbledore considered this. "I fear what could be done with your blood once he has it, Harry."

 _Do you want the good news or the bad news first?_  Harry thought, hysterically. "I mean, before, he used it to resurrect himself. What could be worse than that? And," he searched desperately for a reason, "he could bite me," he finished. Dumbledore looked rightfully confused. "Anytime! He could bite me. There's nothing stopping him from having my blood, at all. So, why not spare us all the trauma of  _that_ and go ahead with it now?"

Of course, Dumbledore hadn't risen to his position of headmaster by being imperceptive. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"No," Harry said, hastily, and grabbed the knife, gracelessly swiping it over his hand. Then he smacked it against the wall, watching as his blood dripped paths like raindrops down the craggy, dusty rock. "There. Less chance of murder."

Courteously, the wall opened into a nice, horribly confining tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a boat, lined in gold. "Luxury treatment," Dumbledore said. He still appeared suspicious, and likely Harry would get confronted about this entire incident later in time, but now they couldn't afford to delay. Not even when Harry, admittedly, was doing a pretty shite impression of a deceptive Tom.

"It probably thinks I'm him." Harry stared intensely at the boat, which was very good at appearing harmless, and cautiously set one foot inside. Nothing happened. The boat rocked in the water, and then settled very peacefully. He got in, and sat somewhat stupidly, waiting for something to rise from the water and eat him. Nothing did.

Dumbledore waved a hand and they were off into the middle of a vast, black lake.

But that was all it was. Just a lake. Harry knew Tom -- he  _knew_ him -- like the back of his hand, and he was an unmistakable presence. Harry would never have missed him. But here, in the dead centre of suspiciously calm water, the only part of Tom to exist was the one nestled against his soul. The cave was empty, in a way that was far more unsettling and dangerous than simply a lack of Tom's supposed Horcrux. It was entirely devoid of life. It was filled to the brim with the stink of rot. The sinking feeling that lately had been a constant presence in the back of his mind suddenly rose like bile, and Harry was swiftly aware that there were magicks darker and more disgusting than even the cloying feeling of terror a Horcrux inspired.

"Fascinating," Dumbledore said. "A fascinating choice of guard."

Harry kindly did not ask him to elaborate. He was too busy staring at the hand rising slowly out of the water. Mangled, mummified skin peeling from bone like a cut of boiled meat. The smell of death intensified a thousandfold. He had seen no shortage of terrible things in his relatively short lifetime, and the dread he was feeling now rivaled the worst of them. When Voldemort had first risen from that cauldron, pale and skeletal and ghoulish, Harry had at least felt a sickening sort of clarity. This was how it was always meant to pan out, he'd thought. This has been what I've been waiting my whole life for. But nothing about this seemed clear. Everything felt wrong, wrong and twisted. "What is that?"

"They are the Inferi," said Dumbledore, too conversationally. "Reanimated corpses."

"Zombies?"

"Quite distinct from zombies. The Inferi live to do their master's bidding, not to feed on flesh."

Many more hands were surfacing, pallid, cracked skin and curling nails. A few fingers had rings, little flashes of gold and silver reflecting in the dim light, beautiful jewels still sparkling stars, even when nestled so closely to the dead. "But they were people once."

"Yes, but they are people no longer. It's best to remember that."

"And Voldemort, what, dug them up from graves to protect his Hocrux?"

Dumbledore looked at him, unspeakably sad. "Voldemort never had to search for bodies, Harry. An excess lay just within his reach. His own victims."

"He- he used them, the very people who dedicated their lives to fighting against him, as his own personal army?" Harry started, despite his rising horror, to laugh. "Why am I still surprised?"

"Cosmic irony. A concept I believe Tom has always been quite fond of."

"How do we stop them?"

"Come," Dumbledore said. "To the island."

The little outcropping of rock just meters ahead, so close Harry could trace the elegant moulding on the altar that sat within it. It seemed a lifetime away.

As the boat glided forward, the hands reached to catch their nails on wood to pry from its mossy underside. Harry cast Sectumsempra on reflex, terror clawing at his throat at the pale little stubby fingers. But there was no blood, no living flesh to be targeted, and Sectumsempra wouldn't cut through bone. "It's useless!"

"They're not too fond of fire," said Dumbledore.

But burning the boat would strand them in a lake of monsters. Hence, the outcropping, Harry realised.

Its bow smashed unceremoniously into the island's bank, groaning and creaking and giving a great shudder. Harry was tripping over his own shoelaces in his attempt to fling himself from it and crawl onto the grit and rock. But where Harry flailed and scraped his hands bloody, Dumbledore was graceful and elegant, stepping out from the boat to perch regally by the altar. Harry watched as Dumbledore sighed, closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and then twirled the Elder Wand in his hands. A protective wall of fire was birthed like a phoenix around them, encasing the island and trapping them with the Horcrux. Harry flinched, expected heat at his cheeks, but found none.

Sometimes he forgot just what level of power Dumbledore had cultivated over the years.

And then sometimes he didn't.

At the altar, Dumbledore made various considering noises. Harry peered in but saw only murky water. Something about it made him uneasy, something more than the stifling atmosphere, something beyond the Dark Magic. When Harry had found the diadem, he had felt -- counter to all intuition -- an overwhelming sense of peace. The diadem had been, if anything, _pleased_  to see him. But here, here there was nothing. No peace, no anger, no sadness.

Had it already been destroyed? Was that even possible?

It couldn't be. To the Order, this was fantastic news. Their work, already done for them? Imagine. But to Harry, the thought made him unexpectedly sick.

Oblivious to Harry's inner turmoil, Dumbledore cupped his hands in the water and raised them to his face, but found them empty. Resting at the altar's edge was an ornate-looking seashell, which Dumbledore picked up and dunked instead of reattempting with his hands. It came back full. "I think I'll have to drink," he said, eventually. "Whatever happens, you must make sure I finish. Is this understood?"

"No," Harry blurted. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "No, wait. Something's wrong."

"One would expect, in a place like this."

"No, I mean-" What  _did_ he mean?

Honestly, he couldn't be sure he wasn't completely delusional. Merlin knew this wasn't a trick specifically designed to throw him off, knowing his luck and Voldemort's obsessive paranoia. Yet everything in him screamed that there was something off about this place. About the altar, specifically. He coughed.

He settled on, "Uh, I- it isn't- it doesn't really  _feel_ like a Horcrux."

"No?" Dumbledore asked. "You can feel them so acutely, can you, Harry?"

"Yeah, it's like he's suddenly there with you, you know? But there's... there's nothing here. Is it- did it _die?_ "

Dumbledore hummed. "I would very much doubt that, considering their greatest trait: their resilience. If you, indeed, are right, Harry, which it is entirely possible you are, then it's far more likely the Horcrux simply... isn't here."

"Someone moved it? Who would do that?"

"Therein lies the question."

How could he tell the difference between selective muteness and death? How could he reach out to the Horcrux without Dumbledore touching whatever liquid encased it? Was there a counter curse? Legilimency? The best person to ask was Tom himself, but the one he carried with him now ran the risk of being outdated, and the diadem had spent some thirty years in the Room of Requirement.

But as he reached out, a metaphysical hand grasping at the wisps of his own soul, he felt a sudden terrible sinking sort of dread. Along the dark line of the Inferi in his senses, there was a splash of an all-consuming emptiness. Orbiting its event horizon, a deep, throat-seizing sort of fear.

"Voldemort."

Indeed, the fire protecting them parted like the Red Sea, revealing a tall, thin, cloaked figure.

With a snakelike face.

"Harry," Voldemort replied. "Imagine my surprise when I heard you were coming here."

Heard? From whom?

 _Merlin,_  he thought, in sudden terror, _what if it was me? What if it was me he heard it from?_  He could hear his blood in his ears, an instinctual cocktail of regret and horror tearing its way through him like acid in his veins. _Oh, fuck, I've botched it all up. Our only chance, and it's gone_ -

But it was so empty. It was so empty here, and what if that meant he was right? If he played Voldemort, he'd be risking everything on a tiny little chance, a half-formed thought like a tadpole twitching away in the back of his mind. But if he stood by, no doubt whatever explosive rage Harry thought Tom might ever have had the chance of mastering would come seeping out in Dumbledore's presence, like it always had. It seemed, in fact, like gravity, the immutable laws of physics. The one kitten claw that would unravel the spool of yarn Tom had neatly spun out of his own chaotic mind.

Could he honestly hang the fate of the world on something so uncertain? Or was certainty impossible now? The face staring him down proved that enough. Nothing he had thought to be true ever seemed to work out that way in the end. He had a Horcrux on his side, a facet of Voldemort that supported him. He'd let his greatest enemy and life's greatest threat lap blood from his hand. And yet here they still were, like nothing had changed, facing each other on two opposite ends of an equivalent expression.

From the outside, nothing _had_  changed. It wasn't something he really had any right to be surprised over, considering the generally mystifying turns his life had been taking recently, and yet he was reeling, and Voldemort knew it. Soon, too, Dumbledore would glean that Harry's shock wasn't all that connected with the presence of a Dark Lord in the end, but rather in the specifics of how that presence manifested. Or chose to manifest.

"How'd you hear about that, then?" Harry posed, faux-conversational, warm tones and pretend manners, the other side of Tom's same coin.

"I have my sources," Voldemort said, but there was something off about it, something in the flicker of his eyes that Harry thought he found familiar.

 _Holy shit, by Merlin, he's lying. It's bollocks, a complete fabrication, and he knows it. No sources are that fast, and I've not even slept, or had much time to think, let alone about our exact location._  Harry blinked. _He guessed, then. An educated guess, but not_ too _educated. How many locations has he flipped through by now in trying to find us? How many does he have yet to check?_

_How reliably can I tell what's part of Tom's elaborate grandstanding and what's based in fact? Is it just because he thinks I'm about to destroy the Horcrux that's supposedly in here? Does he know whether it's a fake?_

"So, how do you plan to stop me?" Harry asked, instead. Anger was familiar, at least. An offended Voldemort he knew how to handle. A threatened Voldemort was arguably a worse beast.

Voldemort smiled, humouring. "What makes you think  _I_ need to stop you?"

"You're going to make your dead do your dirty work for you?"

"Really, Harry." The patronising way Voldemort's tone flowed through the room made his skin crawl. Though Voldemort and Dumbledore probably shared the same opinions on Harry's relative level of intelligence, the latter had never lorded the fact over him. And Harry always put together the pieces in the end. He couldn't ward away the Inferi in one flick of his wand, or waltz through fire, but he'd come to know Voldemort better than anyone else alive, even -- when, on the few occasions he got the feeling -- better even than the man himself. "They are my dirty work."

He said it as if it were something to be proud of. Grand sweeping gestures at the room around them, like these walking corpses were an achievement. Even in the basest sense, they fell flat. None of them moved with poise or grace, or on anything other than instinct. Wouldn't successful Necromancy get you a perfect replica?

Or was the success in that he got to defile his enemies one last time? To crest the ultimate totality of death and raise them  _still_ to defy all they had once believed in in life, to snuff out the very meaning of their deaths, distort their sacrifice, and leave what remained to obey the being who they'd died to disobey?

"You can't have it," Harry said. Voldemort blinked at the non-sequitur.

"It's of no use to you," Voldemort dismissed. "If you destroy it, many still remain. Indeed, only by destroying yourself could you destroy me. Is that something you're willing to do, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "How would you know?"

"Because we are a great deal alike, you and I. And to waste precious life to soothe an old wound that could be healed... what impiety." The last word was soft, venemous, dripping in disgust.

"Healed?"

"We could join together. Think of our shared power, of all the things we could do."

Harry spat on the floor beneath him. "And all the 'mudbloods' we'd kill."

"So you let the wound fester... in the name of nobility."

"No," Harry said. "I'm going to heal it another way."

And then he plunged his hand into the potion in the basin on the altar on the island in the cave in what was quickly becoming his own personal hell, and so, to the Horcrux within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fROM MY OWN GODDAMN NOTES: "and that's chapter 11 of my masterpiece which would make jk PROUD"
> 
> ALSO FROM MY FUCKING OWN NOTES, PROFESSIONAL HERE FOLKS TOTALLY PROFESSIONAL, HOW TO,,, OUTLINE A CHAPTER (the next one actually wow guys spoilers): "then he's like oh no i tremble at ur feet i am at ur mercy ... im completely here spread out defenceless for you what are you gonna do to me???? and voldemort is like wHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE ACTUAL SHIT and like apparates them to iceland and leAVES HE LEAVES he too uncomf thAT TOO MUCH FOR HIS POOR HEART and harry is like anyway so apparently i can use my oWN GAY against HIS GAY in the ULTIMATE GAY OFF. and thus we learn that seduction techniques are a two way street and voldemort is weak for some ass i M EAN."
> 
> DE. STROY. M E ,.
> 
> on a more serious note, more adapting from the books! not as directly as last time, but it's still a whole thing with me. i spent a long time on this chapter, deliberating and chewing my fingernails off, so, it's probably counterintuitively unpolished bc i feel like the longer i work on something the more it seems like a first draft,,, wHAT EVEN IS LIFE RIGHT
> 
> that's why it's like a billion months late j2lyk


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